


Look into the Abyss

by Rakshasha



Series: if it feels good, tastes good (it must be mine) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mentioned Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Morally Ambiguous Character, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Seduction, Sexual Tension, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, The Nogitsune Comes Back, mentions of trauma, no beta we die like man, possibly dub-con situations, stalia is here but only briefly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 147,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23481367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rakshasha/pseuds/Rakshasha
Summary: The world ceases to exist, in that very moment. Stiles is aware only distantly of the others trying to get to him, bouncing off the shield he just threw behind his shoulder, of their distressed calls, but he can only see the triskelion urn, sitting innocently on a shelf. All the shadows reach out for him, pulsing and welcoming, an image of smug smile and glittering dark eyes.Finally here again, little fox? Oh, I’ve missed you.The voice purrs, wraps itself around him like a caress, seeps into his very blood, and Stiles reaches back.
Relationships: Nogitsune/Stiles Stilinski
Series: if it feels good, tastes good (it must be mine) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701286
Comments: 261
Kudos: 677





	1. where it begins

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Monster under the bed.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18075887) by [AnotherLoser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherLoser/pseuds/AnotherLoser). 



> I fell, and fell _hard_ for this ship. It stole my life.  
> And I'm thankful, didn't have this kind of inspiration since [Perfect, actually](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849163). I started writing a month ago, almost exactly, and been writing since then, with little days without in-between, few k's words a day, and still writing more. Madness. I wanted to write it whole first, then post regularly on some nice schedule, but all that writing made my fingers hurt now, severely, so I need few days off and decided to post some already. Because why not? I _think_ I'll be able to finish this story before I run out of already written chapters.  
> And here I forward a sincere thank you to all that wrote for this ship, a lot of those works inspired me, but especially the fantastic [Return of The Nogitsune](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1256108) series by AnotherLoser - go read it and leave some love if you hadn't already!  
>   
> Some general info: mostly Stiles' POV, present tense, but some past happens too, the rating will go up.  
> Also, I'll be tagging more as I'll add next chapters, so look out for that - though some will end up in the notes, too, so I don't clog up the tags too much. But definitely let me know if I should tag something or if you want to know if certain things will show in the story then please send me dm or an ask over on tumblr - link \- and I'll gladly give you any info you need!  
> And I think that's it. Hope you'll enjoy!

The ache stays with him.

For a long time it’s all Stiles knows. From the moment they separated, a quick flash of overwhelming sensations, a rush of power surging through his body and mind, tearing him apart from the demon. And the pain following - unbearable, all-consuming, flaring from deep within his bones to the tips of his fingers, searing and roaring, blind hot agony all over - like something broken deep within, too shattered to mend. Stiles could barely move without exhausting himself with the effort, couldn’t spare a thought to the weird echoes in his chest, shadows curling and writhing, to the buzz in his blood. Something very vital changed that day. Maybe that’s why he fainted back then, in that tunnel, didn’t wake until hours later, the pack strewn about, broken, sniffling, a hollow space where Allison should be. Somehow even a banshee’s scream didn’t rouse him, mind caught in darkness, an empty space settling in-between his ribs.

So Stiles figured - he must’ve been dying. Was absolutely sure of it - with the pain, the hollows in his chest, the weird echoes full of rage. Would they defeat the Nogitsune or not, he’d die anyway. And he almost welcomed the thought, if only to stop the agony that simply _being_ caused. Still, he tried to hang on, he really _tried_ , clawed at wisps of his life, because he couldn’t do it to his dad, he _couldn’t._ That didn’t matter, though, what he wanted - it never did.

As he watched the katana sear right through the demon’s chest, a phantom sensation right through his lungs, Stiles waited with baited breath. For the end. Of pain or his life. As the white, shadowed skin fractured and the Nogitsune fell to his knees, like a puppet with strings cut, cracking, cracking, cracking, as his body gave way and vanished, to dust and ash, the firefly caught by Isaac, Stiles waited for the demon to take him with. It never did. No, instead the hollowness that took residence in his chest expanded, threatened to cut off his breath, carving a hole, an emptiness - his very own void, spreading and echoing. He shouldn’t feel like that, _couldn’t_ , so when he collapsed, when black took him, shadows swallowing him whole, he thought _finally, the end_. But it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. He woke up, alive, with both the pain paralyzing his body and an abyss in his chest.

After it ended, the triskelion urn hidden by Deaton, Stiles slept for almost a week - waking up just to eat or throw up what he’d eaten, in those first few days. Weak, shaking, not able to hold himself up and yet something buzzing deep within his blood, his bones, under the ever present ache. Even then Stiles tried to get his hurting body back to functioning, tried to gather himself up when others came to look after him - Lydia, Scott, Melissa, even Derek on times, before he left, anyway - but it was futile, nonetheless. And the way they looked at him, as if he’d collapse any second. Fair, he supposed, death looking back at him from the mirror. And after that week he’d honestly had enough, a familiar anger bubbling back up in the hollow space between his ribs, ringing in tandem with that new thrum in his veins.

Forcing himself up, trying to go slow, easy, starting with catching up on all the school stuff - and wasn’t it ironic, that they had to go through school like normal teenagers when nothing around them was normal - then going up a notch, getting out of bed. Push ups with trembling arms, crunches till he collapsed, a bar installed in his doorway under his dad’s watchful eyes.

„You sure, son? Maybe it’s too early-”

„I’m fine, dad,” he huffed, wincing almost instantly. His shoulders sagged, a ragged breath leaving aching lungs. „I just need to do something or I’ll go crazy...”

 _Again_ hangs unsaid in the air and his dad only response was a nod, a pat on the back, a little help with setting the bar up. Stiles was never really athletic, lacrosse being practically the only exercise, besides the „running with wolves” thing, but he knew how to pack a punch - wasn’t Sheriff’s son for nothing. Now, though, with the aching, drumming kind of nervous restlessness in his bones he needed it, needed something, to quiet it down, at least for a while. And it helped with the pain, too, because when his muscles hurt from too much exercise Stiles knew it was real, tangible, that he _earned it._

Lydia sometimes stayed, watching him with her sharp, careful gaze, but that was alright - she never made him feel lesser, wrong. Told him all about the kidnapping, why the Nogitsune took her, what he said, what he did, and Stiles felt a little sick.

„I knew it wasn’t you,” she said, because of course she’d catch it.

„Still looked like me, though...”

„Doesn’t matter.”

It really didn’t, to her, he supposed. How they came to that silent kind of understanding, _friendship_ , still baffles him sometimes. Maybe they were more similar than they’d ever admit, sharp edges, fierce loyalty, no bullshit attitude, a human and a banshee running with wolves. He was glad, really, that his crush died somewhere along the way, this kind of connection was worth more than anything he’d ever hope for. And Lydia deserved better. So, so much better.

_But does she, Stiles?_

The voice, soul-crushingly familiar, his own and yet so different, dark and rich and echoing, rings inside his head. He freezes halfway up into a crunch without realizing.

_You’re so much better than any of them, little fox._

It fades as quickly as it came, filling the abyss with a thrilling warmth just to leave it even more hollow, to leave him shaking, gasping for breath.

„Stiles? Stiles! Breathe! C’mon, breathe with me, _Stiles_ -”

A hand lands on his shoulder, ripping him back to reality, back to worried green eyes and parted red lips, heart skipping beats in his chest. Gulping in air, he straightens and forces his eyelids shut, works through the panic with outstanding clarity.

„I’m fine,” he rasps out a moment later, waving his hand vaguely around, breathe still shaky.

„Don’t _fine_ me, I know you’re not.” Her voice is hard, sharp, but carrying a soothing kind of tenderness anyway. How she does it, Stiles has no idea, but it calms his heart just a little.

Head shaking, Stiles draws his legs to his chest, forearms loosely circling knees. Lydia’s small hand never leaves his back, petting him like a frightened animal.

„You’re right,” he admits, a bitter kind of laugh leaving his lips. His vision is all blurred, but he fights it back. „I know it left, I’ve seen, I _felt it_ , Lydia, but-” his voice catches for a second. „It’s like it’s still in here, somehow.”

He bites his lip, _hard_ , to stop the whine trying to escape. It tastes metallic, sweet.

„That’s normal, Stiles.” She sits beside him, hand still drawing soothing circles on his back, green eyes catching his with an understanding he didn’t know if he wanted. „I’d be more worried if you came out of it without any trauma. It will be horrible, but we’ll get through it.” Her other hand comes up to cradle his, tightly clasped together, and wounds it between, loosening his grip. „We’re here for you. I’m here.”

He does break into sobs right there and then, couldn’t catch it in time even if he tried, collapsing in Lydia’s hold, letting it all out, all the pain and suffering and hollowness with tears upon tears and half broken sentences. At the end of the day she knows it all, pieced together from shaky words, and holds him tighter.

Stiles falls asleep into soothing darkness that day, no dreams, no nightmares, no voices, no images of his shadow looking at him with dark eyes. That comes later.

✦✧✦✧

The nightmares won’t really go away as well.

They’re twisted, corrupted, part memories, part a conjured world full of chaos and pain - and sometimes, _sometimes_ when it’s really, really bad ( _so, so good_ ), it’s an ecstasy, almost, a filthy kind of pleasure. It doesn’t feel like pain, then. It’s like a drug, firing up his veins, spreading hotness all over his body, a sick kind of high that’s better than anything he’s ever felt ( _almost anything_ , an echo of voice horribly familiar whispers, _you’ve tasted it already, once,_ and he knows, he knows perfectly well, but won’t think about it). He wakes up shaking, body strung tight and aching low in his groin, exhausted yet filled to the brim with too much, _too much_ -

Cold shower rarely cuts it.

On times he screams himself awake, like he used too, counts fingers - _one_ , _two_ , _three_ , _four_ , _five_ , then _six_ , _seven_ , _eight_ , _nine_ , _ten_ , only ten - as afterimages of blood on his hands, the Nemeton reaching for him, a smirk too pleased as white skin cracks and breaks, are blurring into memory before he reaches the second pinkie. It’s almost comforting. That the dreams aren’t as real as they used to be. Or, at least, that the feeling goes away quickly after waking up, dispersing the nightmares into barely there wisps of images. But that doesn’t make him sleep better.

The worst, though, are ones he’d never expect. Ones that make his skin crawl for a plethora of different reasons, ones that stay vivid even as he opens his eyes in the morning - calm, rested, a whole night slept through.

He. _It_. Is there.

Like an evil, twisted version of himself. A mirror. A _shadow_. His dark eyes are calculating, curious, lips curved with just the slightest hint of amusement, the whole aura about him calm, collected, the dangerous edge lurking, somehow settled. He sits on the Nemeton, one leg tucked in, the other with foot planted firmly, forearm resting on the knee, ankles crossed, posture completely relaxed.

It must be his brain somehow twisting another nightmare that feels and doesn’t feel like one, to put him on edge, to drive him even more crazy, but-

Stiles remembers how, once, he went onto a wild spiral of researching lucid dreaming. And this- This-

„How?” he asks, in this strange space, only dark forest around and stars in the sky, his voice cracking and hoarse.

The Nogitsune’s head tilts to the side, just slightly, and his mouth stretch further. Not a smirk, not yet, but almost.

„Good to see you again, Stiles,” he says, sounding both like him and not at all, but that’s probably a given - no one really knows how they sound, _still-_ The Nogitsune’s voice is deeper, darker, both smooth and raspy in the same breath.

„What is this?” he spats, because panic starts to set under his ribs, curling around his lungs. „Another kind of nightmare? Some other trick? You’re supposed to be _dead_!”

He’s reeling, he’s perfectly aware of that, and dimly wonders if having a panic attack in a dream is even possible - but this is no ordinary dream, Stiles’ knows with a scary kind of awareness. Hanging by a last thread, an anger that’s just a terrified boy’s plea for waking up, he barely notices the shift in the Nogitsune’s mood.

„It doesn’t have to be.”

Stiles startles, thrown on a loop with how out of the blue the remark is, until-

„A nightmare, that is.” The Nogitsune, Void _, some call them Void_ , stands up, one fluid movement of a content predator.

„It is, with _you_. Always.” Stiles seethes, words barely getting through his teeth. It’s been weeks, _weeks_ , and here they are.

A ball of nervous energy starts to simmer in his belly, low level current of electricity running through his veins, dancing on his skin, but he can only see the curious glint in Void’s dark eyes as he steps down from the Nemeton, steps closer.

„Is it?” Void muses, appraising him slowly, with no hurry, with a look that’s flaring along Stiles’ nerves, that sends a hot shiver down his spine, like he’s seeing something he likes, something he _wants_.

Stiles reels back, breath coming in short pants, as their noses almost brushed. Takes a few steps back ( _When_ did he come so close?!), but never dares to look away, to break the hold Void’s dark, practically black eyes have on him, glinting in the barely there moonlight. His body trembles, skin gone cold and yet burning from the inside. Words die on his lips - _leave me alone, get out, let me out, stop -_ slithering through, there and gone, as he stares into the fathomless abyss that is the fox demon - quiet, observing him with unnerving attention, waiting, waiting, waiting.

„Why?” he asks finally, barely above a whisper, heart thudding in his chest.

The dark gaze flicks over his face, slinks down to his chest, then back to his eyes, but nothing on the outside seem to change for the demon. Until his lips twitch, one corner lifting into a tiny, private kind of smile.

„That’s the question, isn’t it?” he murmurs, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit, like he’s teasing him, somehow, and yet the look he gives Stiles is far too calm, far too steady not to mean anything, but-

_Time to wake up, Stiles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos make me smile, comments give me life - I love reading and responding to them, especially on multi-chaptered works like this one, so go wild in that tiny box. I also totally understand if you can only click on the kudos and appreciate it very much ❤
> 
> And, if you'd like, you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - link \- so feel free to come scream at me, fangirl over Void, Voiles, Teen Wolf or pretty much anything. All the love to y'all ❤


	2. where it leads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some changes to the tags have been made - some because I felt it reflects the fic better, some came with this chapter. Let me know if I should add something! There's some naughty at the end, but I tweaked it, so I don't have to raise the rating, _yet_. Don't get me wrong, we're definitely heading there, that seduction tag is added not without reason, but it'll get awhile. 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy!

There’s no school to distract him this time. The year already ended, it’s been weeks since they defeated ( _did they?_ ) the Nogitsune, and he still aches, still writhes in nightmares, but this dream... It wrecks shivers down Stiles' spine as he sits up in his bed, curled in on himself, hands wringing together, trying to control his erratic breath.

It’s not possible. It’s _not._ How could it be?

Stiles saw the Nogitsune collapsing into dust and ash, disappearing into oblivion, saw Isaac catching the fly in the triskelion urn. It. Was. Not. Possible.

_Then how? Why?_

It must be the trauma, he decides. Another manifestation, his brain trying to cope with the empty abyss in his chest, with the pain still throbbing down to his bones, with nightmares. Facing your own demons and what-not. Yes, that’s what it is, Stiles decides as he stands and stirs to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. When he looks up, mirror reflecting pale skin and dark hair, he almost expects his shadow to tilts its head like in the dream, curl its lips into that smile, no, _smirk_ , but it’s just his reflection, plain and simple. Stiles feels terrifyingly too close to being disappointed and chokes on a sob.

An hour later he pulls up at the animal clinic, Deaton already waiting for him on the doorstep. The quick message must’ve not been a surprise, if the calm exterior is anything to go by - though the vet always seems entirely too collected. It’s still early, too early to open up, but he doesn’t complain - takes one look at Stiles, then invites him in. And Stiles spends too many a minute pacing in the examination room before halting and biting his thumb almost to the point of drawing blood.

„Do you have it?” he asks, entirely too calm. Then finally looks at the vet, a calculating look in his eyes. „The urn, do you have it? Safe and hidden?”

Deaton seems to be weighing his options before nodding.

„I do. You want to see it.”

Stiles hesitates, because what if it’s not there? What if it’s opened? What if his dream wasn’t a dream, not really? What if, what if, what if- Then he gives a sharp nod and steels himself, some unknown energy running through his veins like electricity. He can almost feel it sparking at his fingertips, presses them tightly to the inside of his palms.

Deaton walks him into a hidden vault - because of course he has one - the entry hissing open, revealing a small room full of coffers and shelves - and one in particular, against the far wall, the triskelion urn sitting innocently on top. It’s only missing a light pointed at it. But there is something shining around it, circles of symbols, of mountain ash and more.

The air prickles at his skin, tiny needle-sharp pinpricks, all focus zeroing in on the wooden prison, a ghost of his own sitting on a tree stump, head tilted, mouth curved, a look in the dark depths of his eyes, a look that shouldn’t be there, amused, unbothered, _fond._

„Stiles?”

Deaton’s voice rips him away. A deep breath rushes out of his lungs - was he holding it? - and he takes a step back, blinking away the image. The urn sits still, nothing more, nothing less. His blood thrums, sings, _burns_ and the hollow space between his ribs swells, squirms, calls out.

He gives Deaton a small nod and forces unwilling limbs to turn away, to go back to the examination room. When he’s there, he almost collapses, holding himself up on the table with sheer will, lungs barely catching enough air. He’s fought off the panic attack enough by the time Deaton comes back to the room, watching him with wary kind of interest.

„There’s a reason you wanted to see it.”

Stiles doesn’t bother to reply, to lie, to find an excuse. Just nods, not lifting his gaze from the steel surface.

„I can assure you it’s trapped. And the vault is protected by wards, it won’t escape.”

The pinpricks come back to mind, an awareness of some kind of energy, magic maybe?

„Could I learn it?” he asks before he can halt the thought, looking up. „Wards?”

The vet gives it a long thought, probably weighing his options yet again, and it flares a lick of anger in the abyss, but Stiles is careful to snuff it out.

„Possibly.” He nods after a while. „You already handle mountain ash and herbs.” Moving outside the room, he comes back with few tomes, some thick, some like notebooks, and places them on the table. „Here, see if it’s something for you, try it out, but be careful. And come to me, if you have any questions.”

Stiles keeps his eyes on the books, something new and yet familiar simmering up his veins, through his body, warming the impossible hollowness to make it almost bearable, and it’s enough to make the decision. Meeting Deaton’s gaze he nods, strangely calm and sure, a kind of understanding passing between them the nature of which Stiles isn’t sure but can’t be bothered to care about right now. So he takes the tomes, thanks quietly and gets back home, first pages studied carefully before he even ate breakfast.

But as he steps out of the clinic, the voice speaks up, barely a whisper.

_Be careful, Stiles._

He doesn’t stop, feels Deaton’s gaze on his back as he gets inside the jeep and starts it up.

_You shouldn’t trust him. He has his own interest at heart here._

The engine rumbles as he directs it to his home, the books laid out on the passenger seat.

I don’t trust anyone, he thinks. To himself, to the voice (that is _only_ his brain projecting trauma), to the universe. A curse or a promise, he doesn’t know, but it rings sincere through all of his body, swells inside the emptiness with something too close to smug satisfaction, amusement, he can almost hear the click of a tongue, imagine the smirk.

_Oh, my little fox, I knew I chose well._

A hot shiver sparked with fire circles down his spine, burns at his nerves, and he bites down a whimper, ignores it, ignores the voice, the feeling, vehemently shoving it down, away, into the darkest corners of his mind - dark, so dark, so vast - and slams one of the books open on his desk as soon as he steps into his room. He’ll barely leave it this summer.

By the time he gets through all of Deaton’s tomes, he can truly feel that something’s different. Somewhere along the way, at some point, there was a shift, inside of him, like a dam bursting free, door sliding open, fire igniting. It’s a heady feeling, powerful and all encompassing, but it’s also terribly terrifying.

Stiles wakes up one night, shivering and gasping, to catch tremors shaking up his whole room, pictures falling from walls. Everything quakes, his veins thrum with energy like a live wire, but he can’t catch his breath and it’s getting worse, objects are thudding on the floor, thunder rolls outside, rain pattering on the windows loud like gunshots, lightning fires up the night and Stiles is panicking, he can’t, he _can’t-_

_Breathe, Stiles, breathe._

He gasps for air, claws at his chest, sheets tangled all over his limbs like snakes. Then - shadows reach out, slithering up his legs, his arms, settling in an embrace that feels like the strangest of hugs, both warm and cold, steady and pulsing a soothing rhythm. He barely sees them, aware only somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, but it fills the hollow ache like the shadows belong there.

_That’s right, little one, breathe. It’s alright, I’m here..._

Painfully, agonizingly slow Stiles comes to - minutes, maybe hours later, heart still beating too fast, lungs trying to catch air, but nothing aside from his body is still shaking. As he calms down, the shadows dissipate to leave only a repressed memory, and Stiles is, not for the first time, grateful that his dad has a night shift and all the surveillance installed some time ago is taken down. He wouldn’t be able to explain it even if he wanted to.

„What the fuck...” he whispers to himself, to the quiet darkness in his room, as he’s still half-curled and half-sitting on the bed, taking in the mess the _whatever it was_ caused.

When he stands up, runs his fingers over the spines of the fallen books, his blood thrumming with energy, Stiles thinks, with starling clarity-

„It was _me_...”

A strong temptation grips him - to reach for the books, try the spells, the wards, runes, anything, put to the test that humming energy in his veins, but he forces it down, hides the tomes in his closet and collapses onto the bed. Maybe he shouldn’t go back to sleep, lest he wakes up with a scream and busted windows, but he doesn’t even know how exhausted he is until his head hits the pillows. He’s dragged under before he can form any coherent thought and as he fades into the black, there’s a tiny, tiny hope for a dream he shouldn’t want, yet can’t help longing for - deep, deep down in the hollows of his chest and the ache in his bones. The darkness creeps in, embraces him, draws in, warm, inviting, cooing with encouragement and he lets go of the last shreds of his control, lets himself be pulled in-

Stiles blinks his eyes open to the clearing, a sight painfully familiar even though he tried to repress and hide it in the farthest parts of his mind. Trees sway in the dark all around, fireflies dotting the air with a full moon shining bright overhead, painting everything in silver glow. When he steels himself enough to finally turn and look, the Nemeton is there, as before, as is _Void._ This time, though, he’s sitting cross-legged, a book laying open on his thigh, long fingers brushing through the pages - it looks eerily familiar, runes visible even from the distance. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t even acknowledge Stiles’ presence, even though he must be aware he’s being watched.

A few moments pass with the beating of his heart before he can make himself step closer. One, two, _three-_

Dark eyes flit up, catching his gaze in the same breath, and Void smiles yet again, a pleased curl to his lips that looks almost sinful.

„Took you long enough, little fox,” he says, low and rich and _dark_ , like a forbidden caress.

Stiles shivers, but refuses to back down, stops only as his toes graze the stump. He’s never been this close to the demon that looks too much like him and yet doesn’t in more ways than one.

„What am I?” He forces out, hoarse and shaky, but can’t even gather any will to be embarrassed, ashamed or whatever. He needs answers and a thousand year old fox should have at least some.

Void barely seems to acknowledge his question, eyes trailing all over Stiles, slow and intimate, appraising yet again. They’re dark, framed with purple and black, a stark contrast to almost white skin. Only now does Stiles notices the differences in their appearances, never had the time or desire to dissect it before, but now - now he watches the Nogitsune, his face almost like a watercolor painting, pale as the moon, sharp, so much sharper than what he sees in the mirror, shadowed and framed with inky blackness. It suits him, he muses, it suits him so, so much in the most haunting way, beautiful and dangerous, it almost hurts, it’s almost _too much_ , unfair, the way it makes sparks trickle over his skin.

„Like what you see?”

The Nogitsune purrs and Stiles startles, takes a step back, meets his gaze with a ragged breath racking his chest. His shadow couldn’t possible look more smug, more amused, more _pleased,_ and yet- and yet- He tries to force the shiver away, steel himself back.

„What. Am. I. Void.” He seethes through clenched teeth, ignoring the pleased sparkle in the dark depths.

„A beauty, Stiles, so, so beautiful and perfect...”

It curls around him, simmers down his body with a heat that colors his cheeks crimson red, a sinfully dark and rich voice that has no right, _no right_ , to make him feel that way. And even then, even with the sensation stealing away his body, his mind halts, stutters.

_A beaut_ \- What- No, _no_ , him? Beautiful-

He blinks, sputters, almost takes a step back as the Nogitsune tilts his head, just slightly, to one side like a curious fox he is.

„But that’s not what you’re asking, though, is it?” he muses, watching him intently, mouth still curled up in a small smile.

Stiles feels it without realizing, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip, a nervous habit, one he can’t beat down, and Void traces it with a glean in his eyes that almost makes his knees give out.

„Just-” He stutters, stops, looks away to take a deep breath before turning back. „Just tell me.”

The fox regards him again, but the air changes, charged, colored with intent, though how Stiles knows it is beyond him. He waits, with bated breath, trying not to think, not to imagine, not to _hope-_

„Have you ever heard of Sparks, Stiles?” Void says, finally, voice smooth and even, with just a tint of purpose.

And this time Stiles lets his legs give way, lets himself rest on the Nemeton, face the demon wearing his features and lean in, ignoring the quietly pleased air that seems to cling to his skin.

„Deaton called me a spark once, but I never asked. Didn’t seem-” he cuts himself off as, a while too late, he notices that a new darkness creeped around them, pulsing and _angry_ , stretching behind Void in shadows that sway, writhe with energy, in spikes that look- look-

„You’d do well to stay away from the vet, little fox,” Void says, voice gone carefully quiet, but charged in a way that echoes, rasps, makes him cold and terrified, dark eyes hard and unyielding.

„Why?”

„A Spark, Stiles, is the kind of magic that’s so rare almost none know about,” he says, tone even, but commanding attention nonetheless, and Stiles finds himself drinking in every word. „Raw and endless power, as old as the universe. Being a Spark is both a blessing and a curse.”

Hidden depths of self-consciousness, self-loathing, _just a weak, fragile human running with wolves_ surge up to the front, press against his teeth with a need to protest, because surely he couldn’t be that, _that powerful_ , when he was barely holding on as it was - but he bites it down, swallows and ignores the gleam in Void’s eyes.

„How do you know that? If they are so rare...”

„Did you perhaps forget I’m over thousand years old?” The fox teases, properly amused at the blush Stiles can’t really help. „I’ve met a few. None lived too long, I’m afraid.” His voice doesn’t waver, not even a hint of any kind of emotion.

Stiles is almost afraid to ask, vaguely sick. Did the Nogitsune killed them? Played with them like a cat with a mouse, put through his tricks then drained them of power? Could he even do that? Did he need to? Questions upon questions crowd inside his head, clashing and splintering, while Void watches him, lazy and content, gaze somehow both bored yet attentive. So he pushes them all down until they’re just a murmur in the background, before swallowing through a parched throat.

„Why? You killed them?”

Void’s lips twitch, curve into an even more amused smile, before a quiet chuckle leaves his chest - a low sound, warm, smooth, slipping down Stiles spine and curling inside his ribs. He feels like he should run, as fast and as far away as it’s possible, but he can’t make himself move.

„Why would I? That’d be no fun, no fun at all,” the demon says, like the thought is rather silly. Stiles is already opening his mouth, but Void continues, the edge of amusement much softer, something heavy in his dark gaze. „You should know how power can be crushing, you’ve seen the wolves struggle and they’re but specks in face of a true Spark.”

The air pricks at his skin, crackles over flesh and sinks in, thrumming with energy, impatient and ready for just a flick of a finger. He doesn’t dare to look away from Void.

„What are you saying?”

Deep down, in the abyss inside his lungs and the dark corners of his mind, he already knows, can taste it on the tip of his tongue, feel it on his fingertips, charged with intent. The Nogitsune, somehow, indulges him with an answer anyway.

„It crushed them,” he says, low, barely above a whisper, any and every trace of amusement gone. „Crazy with power they either killed themselves or were killed before they could reach even a quarter of their potential.” Void’s eyes narrow just a little, sharp and cutting right into him. „Tell me, Stiles, what the druids do, what’s their goal?”

Breathe catches in his throat, unwanted memories sipping in, both expected and some in new light, as he trembles with the weight of sudden realization.

„Maintain the balance.”

And what’s more off-balance than a being with unlimited power and magic potential?

In that moment, somehow, for some reason, Void’s eyes soften, mouth twitching into the barest hint of a smile as Stiles shakes, eyelids pressed shut tightly, knows what it means, now, if what he says is true. It shouldn’t, couldn’t be true, and yet-

„You feel it already, don’t you, little one?” Void murmurs, warmth, richness to his tone that slips right through his skin, coils around him almost possessively. He shudders with a nod.

„What do I do?”

Silence blankets him all around, no noise for a long, agonizing moment, as he waits and waits, not daring to open his eyes even though everything in him screams to do so. He can’t - afraid of what he’ll see. Or won't see.

„Continue as normal. Learn. Adapt.”

He gasps loudly, because one second cool silence and pristine air was the only thing surrounding him, but now there is a body beside him - one leg, knee to ankle, pressed to his thigh, the other at his back, his shoulder brushing a solid chest. His eyes open wide to the ground and shadowed trees. He doesn’t dare to turn and _look._

Distantly Stiles thinks he should be repulsed, sick, with the awareness of exactly what is so, so close to him, what it done, to him, to his friends, yet he can’t find it in himself to lean away, to put space between them, finds himself _craving_ \- more, closer, _please-_

„Would you teach me?” he lets it slip without thinking, on a shaky breath.

A finger curls under his jaw, cool to the touch, but searing hot at the same time, and as Void cups his cheek to turn, make him meet the dark fiery gaze, Stiles bites down a startled whimper. Every single brush makes him feel like an exposed wire, too sensitive. It shouldn’t be possible, he thinks, as Void regards him with a tiny little curve to his lips, like he _knows._

„I could,” he says, eyes hooded, as the pad of his thumb traces just under Stiles' bottom lip, not touching, but enough to leave a feather light, hot sensation behind. Stiles barely holds back the impulse to lick it away, see if it has a taste of it’s own.

„What do you want?” he asks instead, sure without a doubt that this is a bargain, a deal - dangerous, one he won’t get out of. He should never trust a fox, he knows, he _knows_ , perfectly well, but as that sinful lips curve and curl, he can’t bring himself to care.

„Oh, my little fox, I think you know perfectly well,” he purrs, delighted, a mischievous fox in all its glory.

Later, when he thinks back to it, trying to convince himself it was just a dream, he won’t admit that as Void leaned closer, Stiles _followed._ But Void tilted his head, let their cheeks brush, cool against warmed up, a contrast of sensations that sends shivers down his body, and brought his mouth to Stiles’ ear, close enough to touch.

„You, Stiles,” he breaths out, a dirty kind of secret, hot puff of air on sensitive skin, „I want _you_.”

Stiles surges awake with a moan already on his lips, rock hard and tangled in sheets already halfway to the floor. Panting into the pillows, he barely spares a thought for the whys and hows and shouldn’ts, reaches inside his boxers. His moan drowns in the material bitten between his teeth as he writhes, curls in on himself, hand working almost furiously, tightly, faster, _faster, harder,_ until his orgasm crashes through his whole body, waves upon waves of pleasure that make him suffocate the whimpers in pillows when he can’t keep his mouth shut anymore. With a gasp and whole body twitches he comes to slowly, mind a foggy plain of bliss, a fathom touch on his jaw, cheek, a breath in his ear, it all feels like a delirious dream.

He shudders, strewn over the bed, spent, until he can gather enough strength to go to the bathroom and clean himself, change clothes. Doesn’t dare look into to the mirror, but as he collapses under the blankets, he distantly notes an impossible - the ever present ache, the hollow abyss in his chest dulled. Sated. At least for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wondered about that last bit, should I delete or keep it, but I like it too much, so it stayed. Also, I kinda played myself with starting to post this fic, I realized I still have to add to the beginning of Season 4 in the fourth chapter (coincidence, but a funny one, ain't it?) and my arms still hurt, so I need to take writing very, very slowly, if at all. Anyway, it should be good before I get to it.  
> If you have some ideas, want to see some other Voiles, let me know! It may not end up in this story, but I already have lots of ideas for one-shots - some even written or started already, though I think I'll keep it for later - and I may take some inspiration for later. There sure will be lots of one-shots when I'm done with this fic ;p 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Do you like where it leads *wink, wink*? Have some theories? Let me know!  
> Hope y'all staying well and safe, lots of love to everyone reading and enjoying ❤


	3. when magic starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is unusually long (for now at least), simply because I just didn't feel like splitting it in the middle would work. But if you'd prefer to read in smaller chunks - you can stop at any break in paragraphs or right in the middle, after the party scene where I would split it if I decided that way.
> 
> That said, a psa - there's some underage drinking mentioned here. I feel like that's a given with Teen Wolf, but just so you know! Also added panic attacks to the tags, which I probably should've done already, so sorry for that! Always let me know, if I should add something more! 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this chapter ❤

The next morning Stiles ignores the memory, the distant satisfaction settled deep inside his bones, his gut, humming with thrills of what he knows now is magic - power. Spark’s power. And maybe he shouldn’t trust the voice in his head, the image of his shadow, but he pushes all these thoughts to the back of his mind, locked away tightly in a wooden box. It’s his brain, nothing else, coping in the weirdest manner. If it helps Stiles control whatever’s going on inside him, the better. So he ignores everything and anything that even tries to get back to that feeling, that words, the breath on his ear, in the morning after, the next, and next, and every one after that, burrowing himself in tomes upon tomes and research about rituals, runes and spells. When he goes out with the Pack, they all note he looks better, healthier, Scott’s almost beaming at him and it makes Stiles feel just a little bit guilty, because if he _knew-_ Stiles swallows it down and smiles back, rolls with the flow, following his best friend.

The Nogitsune shows up again not much later, just a few nights of half-nightmares and fever dreams he can’t remember a lick of, looks him over from his usual spot on the Nemeton, before gesturing Stiles to sit and beginning to fulfill his part of the bargain. Stiles vehemently ignores his, whatever it may be - if it even matters when it's all just in his head - and Void seems plenty pleased with just teaching, giving him the space and distance he so desperately needs.

It becomes an almost regular thing, every few days, once or sometimes twice a week, the fox demon showing up in these weird dreams that feel like so much more - a whole other dimension? an illusion? a conjured world? - to dispose the vast knowledge he has. Stiles’ mind halts ever so often, both amazed and slightly terrified, but he can’t help but _yearn_ for more - he was always a sucker for information, whatever it may be.

„How do you know so much about it?” he asks, once, after Void finished his tale of a druid’s ritual. He almost loathes to admit the demon is a great storyteller. „It’s not your type of magic, isn’t it?”

Void’s gaze flickers over him, still so, _so_ attentive it makes Stiles want to squirm in his place - he’s _never_ got so much undivided attention from anyone - but there’s always a gleam of something else, something more, in those black eyes that Stiles can’t decipher.

„When you live as long as I do you learn to entertain yourself, little fox. And knowing things can go a long way,” he says, simple, shoulders twitching like he suppressed a shrug - and isn’t that bizarre.

In that moment, though, Stiles realizes what he should long before - the Nogitsune is a fox, a trickster in nature, as mischievous as it is curious. The thought, somehow, puts him at ease, even if it pushes forth a parallel he _won't_ entertain.

Plethora of questions circles in his mind, things he sometimes wonders about, despite himself, ever since- _since._ And some things that only now start nagging at his mind, demanding attention - so, as with everything else he can’t deal with right now, he puts them away. Because if he asks, if he gets the answers he’s afraid of, if he even acknowledges-

It’ll change him. Change _everything_. And by the way Void’s looking at him, the demon’s perfectly aware of it too - lets Stiles get away with it, even though it would probably only help the fox achieve whatever he wants. Then _why_? Stiles pushes it back as he did with everything else. It's not real, anyway, so it doesn't matter.

„I want to put wards around my house.” His fingers are fiddling with little sprouts from the Nemeton, but he meets Void’s eyes with a steely determination born of the energy thrumming through his veins. It won't go away even after hours of exercise and running - because it’s not from his body. And he needs it _out_.

The Nogitsune makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat, gaze thoughtful.

„Something more?”

„Maybe infuse the walls with mountain ash, if it’s possible.” Nothing about it could be found in Deaton’s tomes or his research, but after everything Stiles heard, he’s pretty sure he could do it.

„It is, but later, when you have better control.” Something flickers inside the dark depths, a wariness he’s never seen there before. „Maybe you should tell your friends before you do the wards.”

Stiles stills, gapes, not quite believing what he heard. Is he, what, concerned? He doesn’t care about them, couldn’t-

„I don’t”, Void says, like he just read his mind or somehow just _knows_ what Stiles is thinking. „Doesn’t change the fact that even if they won’t know why they can’t enter your home, they will know they simply _can’t_. And keeping your learning a secret is more suspicious. It’s perfectly understandable you’d want to know, you’re the only human in the pack. _Well_ , at least partly human, but that they don’t have to know.”

It’s all perfectly reasonable, they way he phrases the whole thing. The last part? Not really sitting well with Stiles, but he supposes the more people know he _maybe_ is a Spark, the better the chance someone will come for his head. The thought is sobering.

„So I tell them, just that I’m learning and planning on doing the wards.” Nodding, he tries to ignore the silent approval on Void’s curved lips. „When should I do it?”

A quiet hum rumbles in his shadow’s chest - a little broader than his own, corded with muscle visible even under the simple black hoodie, the small difference easing and putting him on edge at the same time - and his head tilts to one side. A fox in human skin. _His_ skin. Though - is it his, still? If it's so different.

„It’s Friday tomorrow, isn’t it? A party at your little friend’s house? The pretty strawberry blonde?” Void muses, instantly pleased at the quick flicker of anger that must’ve shown itself on Stiles face. „You should go, little fox, have some fun. Tell your friends. Then, Saturday evening, we’ll do the wards.”

The anger dissipates, his mind already latching onto the plan, circling it around, poking at it from every angle.

„Why then? Why Saturday evening?”

„You’ll probably be exhausted from putting them up, may as well sleep through the night after, don’t you think?”

 _If_ he’ll be able to sleep through the night. He got better, sure, the fox’s dream appearances, as much as he loathes to admit it, result in the best rest he’s had since... ever, possibly. The other nights he still struggles, but not as much as he used to. It’s a relief, if anything else.

The plan settles on his shoulders and he can already feel the quiet anticipation nipping at his nerves, something close to excitement buzzing in his veins, it’s almost... happy.

Stiles swallows, throat somehow dried out in span of seconds, mind caught up on few simple words.

„You’ll walk me through them?” he asks, hoarse and eyes fleeting away, around, not able to withstand the heaviness of Void’s gaze. Because he already knows the answer, it’s not really a question too, but one he needs to voice all the same.

„Of course, Stiles, I wouldn’t miss it,” Void murmurs, much closer than he was moments ago, leaned forward, hot breath just barely brushing his cheek.

Stiles shivers, not even trying to stop his tongue from darting over his bottom lip. Void’s gaze _burns_ , but oh he wants so much more, he _wants_ so much it _hurts_. And somehow, someway, he gets a surge of courage, or stupidity maybe, looks up, meets eyes glinting like twin obsidian crystals reflecting moonlight. And they are _hungry._

In some distant part of his brain Stiles realizes that there won’t be going back, from here. When he puts up the wards following a dark, rich version of his own voice inside his own head he may not be able to lie to himself anymore, to try and convince himself that it’s just the way his brain copes with leftover trauma. _Too smart for his own good_ , his father’s voice echoes and even though he’s self-conscious on a normal day, that at least he knows as truth.

Hot breath simmers against his wet lips and he _shudders_ , barely holds back a gasp. When he feels their noses brush, feather light, cool against warm, he wakes up with a whimper to a dark room and tangled sheets. He breathes deeply, into his pillows, trying to banish the thoughts, the images, the ghost touches - he doesn’t sleep anymore that night.

The party seems to be a smashing success, if the amount of people, laughs and cheers is anything to go by - also, it’s Lydia’s, it couldn’t go wrong (that one time doesn’t count). His friends are scattered all around, looking better than those few weeks he’s seen them last - they’ve all had other plans, family, visits, vacations, life, needed the time - and Stiles can feel some of the weight on his shoulders chip off, little chunks of worry and stress. He’s still cautious of letting any were’ - or just Scott, mostly - touch skin to skin, in case they’d start leeching off the pain that still surges up his bones, simmers deep inside the muscles - most days it’s just an echo, far off and easy to ignore, but he’d rather not risk anyone knowing. It became a second nature through past months (and isn’t that sad?), avoiding any direct contact.

Wandering through the outside patio, Stiles sips on his beer and tries to ignore the steadily raising hum in his blood, itching at his fingertips. In anticipation of the next night, from too much built up or maybe because he’s already had few cups, starting to feel just a bit too warm, this time from the alcohol. Not entirely unpleasant, but as the energy surges in his chest, he wonders-

_I’d be careful with that, little fox._

For his own credit - he doesn’t freeze up. Stops in a people-free corner, leans on a windowsill with eyes on the drink, before shaking his head and taking a few more sips.

I was supposed to have fun, he thinks. To himself. To the voice. The heavy, rich voice conjured by his brain.

 _There’s plenty more ways you could have fun in, Stiles,_ the voice chides, properly amused, with an edge that makes hot sparks dance on his skin. _Maybe you should find your friends. And think about what an out of control magic could do. I’d imagine it could create a lot of... chaos, perhaps?_ The voice hums, a sound that seems to wake a rattling echo in his chest, simmering inside the hollowness that-

Stiles blinks, unconsciously rubbing at his sternum. It’s there, yes, but not like it used to, in the beginning - all encompassing, vast, stealing his breath. It’s more of an ache, a specific kind of emptiness that _longs_ to be filled.

Beer sloshes in the cup as he tips and downs it in one go, maybe hoping to wash away all the thoughts. But as he gets up to go inside he throws the cup away into the trash and doesn’t reach for more, hands firmly shoved down the pockets of his pants so no one tries to give him another drink. He ignores the quietly pleased air that fills his lungs by searching for Scott, then snatching him away to the little secluded corner of the patio, both of them sitting down on the windowsill.

„What’s up, man? Enjoying the party?” Scott asks, all enthusiasm, because he’s a sweetheart like that. There’s still grief lurking there, but he hides it well now.

„Sure, Scotty-boy, the queen would know how to throw one.”

Lydia’s on the other side of the pool, radiant and beautiful as always, and he can’t help smiling, the pride of being called her friend as strong as ever.

„Stiles, I’m so happy for you.” Scott almost puts a hand on his shoulder, redirects the move halfway, presses it to his own chest with a faux seriousness and they both burst out laughing, even if Stiles’ is colored with tension. „I mean, no, for real. Nice to see you get along so well, even if you two together are quite terrifying.”

He lets out another chuckle, but lets it taper off into silence. Which tips Scott off quick enough.

„Alright, so what’s really up? Want to talk about something?”

A quiet sigh leaves his lips, his insides seizing up in a tight ball of nerves even though, realistically, he has nothing to worry about. As a barely there wave of something close to comfort soothes the sharp edges Stiles gathers his wits and nods.

„I’ve been reading Deaton’s tomes the whole summer. Y’know, runes, spells, all that shit.” He shrugs, playing it off, but the way Scott practically beams makes the weight fall off almost completely.

„Dude, that’s great! What did you learn?” The enthusiasm is all genuine. Stiles can’t begin to fathom how grateful he feels now.

„Sort of. There’s a lot, man, and I mean _a lot_. But, yeah, I want to put wards around my house. Try to anyway.”

„And that is...”

„Protection. Like magic shields. It would probably mean I’d need to invite you in after setting them, so the wards consider you safe, but I’m still not sure about that part. So, yeah, just wanted you to know.” His mouth clamps shut and he wrings his fingers together, the nerves back with vehemence, but Scott’s smile is impossibly big when he finally looks.

„Man, that’s awesome. You need to let me know how it went, hell, I’ll come to test it out!”

„Yeah, _if_ it works.” He chuckles, but relaxes back enough to lean on the window.

„Nah, man, it will.” Scott squeezes his shoulder, palm warm through the hoodie, still beaming. „You’ll figure it out.”

 _You’re the one that always figures it out_ , echoes inside his brain, rattles and bounces off his skull, but it’s breaking into a storm between his ribs, too many conflicting thoughts and feelings involved, so he pushes it down. One of these days, when it all comes back to the surface, he’s pretty sure he’ll drown in it. But that’s a concern for another day.

Scott perks up beside him, gesturing for something - or someone.

„Hey, that’s Malia! C’mon, Stiles, we should greet her.”

So they do. The werecoyote is blunt and brash in a way that should put him off, but instead gives a breath of fresh air. Scott’s been helping her, so now Stiles gets roped into it too, like always, but maybe he doesn’t mind so much. Malia keeps him occupied, all the while the voice stays quiet, no echoes, no strange sensations running through his body. In that moment, laughing with his friends at a party, he’d never imagine what’ll come of it, later.

Stiles spends the whole Saturday carefully crafting sigils, each with its own unique kind of meaning. The modern witchcraft bullshit he’s read on them on the internet seemed funny at first, until the voice hummed in the back of his head, part amused and part thoughtful.

 _You can’t be serious, that’s some wanna be bullshit,_ he thought then, not fully realizing he’s actually acknowledging the voice.

_Maybe, but magic’s not set in stone, little one. There are more ways of practicing than you’d think and with your kind of power? Doesn’t really matter what way you choose. It’s going to work._

The words raised hairs on his skin, prickling like electricity, before he got back to his research. _Just believe,_ echoed somewhere in his head, but as a wave of quiet displeasure rolled over his shoulders, he banished it in the same breath - and was met with a chuckle.

_I appreciate the sentiment, darling, but that one time the vet was right. That is how Spark’s magic works._

Shaking off another shiver, he got to work. A stack of paper, pencils, pens and the tome on runes opened before him. That was the morning, then hours of frustration, aching fingers and surprising fun at designing the sigils later he has three symbols ready, each one already evoking different... vibes, sort of, a feeling of silent power, even still on the paper and not yet charged.

It’s early afternoon and soon his dad will go on his shift, so Stiles clambers down, stretching stiff shoulders. He comes to the kitchen as he’s massaging aching fingers, the ingredients for „paint” for the sigils running through his head. His shadow seemed plenty amused by his dedication to go to all this trouble, but he wanted to do it _right._ However it was. And the more protection he puts in it, the better. Maybe he could believe it all into existence, but at least that way he had something tangible _to believe in._

His dad watches him with curious gaze as Stiles absently mixes batter for pancakes, the recipe practically burned in his brain from years of making it. He needs something simple and filling, sue him, and his _babcia’s naleśniki_ were the actual _best._

„You alright there, kiddo?”

„Hm?” His head jerks up from the bowl, before he’s moving to put the pan on the oven to heat it up. „Yeah, just got stuck in a research spiral. Y’know how it is.”

Heavy footsteps fill the air as Stiles pours the batter and it starts sizzling on the hot coconut oil.

„And what was it this time?”

He almost freezes, brain sputtering with a crash. Should he tell his dad? The sheriff already knows about the supernatural, but it’s still new, on the other hand - Stiles is going to put shields around their home, he’s bringing magic close and personal, so...

„Well...” He flips the pancake, pleased with the lovely light-brown color, and swallows around dry throat. „I may have been researching, uh, magic, y’know.” He doesn’t need to turn to see the look on his dad’s face. „All summer, actually. Spells, runes, wards, all that shit. Deaton lend me some of his tomes, so that was helpful, and there’s more info on the internet than you’d think, seriously, it’s like these people either don’t know what they’re writing or don’t care about being found out, I mean-”

„Stiles, kiddo, stop.” A large hand lands on his shoulder and Stiles needs to take a deep breath to calm himself. He takes the finished pancake and pours another portion, before his dad speaks up again. „I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” It’s only then that Stiles looks up to find a small smile on the sheriff’s lips. „I kinda expected it, honestly.”

Stiles huffs, an almost laugh, before shaking his head. Because of course he would, his dad knows him too well by now.

„And I think it’s good that you’d have some better, I don’t know, protection against all that supernatural stuff.” The sheriff shrugs, but the message underneath is as clear as day.

With a nod, Stiles focuses on the sizzling batter, flipping the pancake in time.

„That’s the thing. I want to put wards around the house.” His dad blinks, face blank, and he can’t stop the laugh now. „I mean like magical shields. Protection, as you said. And, well...” He scratches at the back of his neck, barely holding back a sheepish blush. „I planned on doing them tonight, actually.”

Chancing a side-eyed glance, he sees the telltale sign of a chest raising in long drawn breath, before his dad exhales in defeat.

„You’d do it anyway, wouldn’t you?” There’s no accusation in his voice, just fond exasperation. Stiles shrugs.

„Yeah, probably.”

It’s _protection_. Shields. Meaning even if Stiles wasn’t here, the wards would keep his dad safe. So of course he’s doing it either with permission or without.

Noah keeps his eyes on his son for a moment longer, before relenting with a what-can-you-do type of shrug.

Another pancake joins the first, the third sizzling away. Stiles could do it with his eyes closed, honestly.

„Alright. Show me tomorrow?”

That halts Stiles for a second. He meant to conceal them right after-

„Okay, I’ll wait for you before hiding them.”

Noah smiles, completely fond this times, before sitting at the table and Stiles gives him the plate without hesitation, then reaches for another for the next finished pancake. There’s still more batter as his dad changes topics.

„So how was the party? Lydia’s outdone herself again, I’m sure.”

And with a thankful smile Stiles launches into rambling about yesterday’s evening.

When an hour passes and the door close after his father’s departure, Stiles takes out a box full of jars from his closet, neatly stacked and labeled. Accumulating it the whole summer was both fun and frustrating, but now he had a stash that could rival Deaton’s. Probably.

Herbs have so many uses that studying it was both a nightmare and one of the longest research binges, but with his power it’s possible it won’t much matter which one he chooses - still, he insists on doing it this way. He has a plan, alright, but as he looks on the jars containing powdered plants and oils, something tugs at his lungs, at his fingertips, compelling him to reach out-

Few minutes later he has quite a collection lined on the floor next to him and is already pouring some in his bowl when he realizes what he’s doing. Freezing with a start, Stiles blinks repeatedly, before reading the labels. Agrimony oil, angelica powder, astragalus, cedar, devil’s claw, even coriander and cinnamon snatched from the kitchen weeks earlier. Some of them he recalls vaguely, some a bit better, they seem to fit well enough - and deep down right within his bones he _knows_ they’re what he needs.

„Weird...” His brow furrows, but as the jars give no answer, he shrugs and gets back to work. It’s almost too easy, the way he just _does_ it, like some hidden part of him just surged up and took reigns.

He halts only after putting an edge of a knife - just when and where did he even _get_ that?! - against his palm, just shy of cutting into skin. Something about the act paralyzes Stiles, seizes up his muscles.

_It’s alright. That’s not really needed._

No? Then why did he even decide to try? He’s still holding it, too.

_It would help, your magic lays in you, even a drop would make the wards insanely more powerful. But you’re going to infuse the sigils anyway, so it’s not needed._

It’s reasonable, he supposes, it sounds reasonable. The symbols need his magic to work, he’s going to use it either way, still...

Licking his lips, nervous, a strange kind of anticipation sizzles along his nerves. Without a doubt he knows he should do it, even the thought makes something sing in his blood, agreeing. So, with teeth clenched tight, he presses the edge into his palm.

A quick prick of pain travels from his palm deep inside him, with a thrill that makes him shudder, that would make him wonder and scared shitless months ago, but now only stocks up the fire burning low in his gut. There’s something trying to break free from his body as he watches crimson blood pool on the knife. With a careful flick of his wrist, Stiles sends exactly tree droplets into the bowl. The resulting surge of power, like a mini thunder inside his bones, make his shoulders shake. If he wasn’t paying close attention, he probably wouldn’t catch the cut on his palm healing immediately.

„Holy shit-”

That’s faster than a wolf!

_That’s your magic, Spark. Feel it. Reveal in it, Stiles, it’s all yours._

He shudders, watching his hand. No other outside sign of the power curling inside makes itself known, but he feels it simmering in sync with his pulse. And with a clarity that’s so unlike his hyperactive brain he realizes he’s never been more... content? Powerful? Confident? He can’t name it, but it makes him grab the bowl, head downstairs to the front door and paint his finger in the mixture. The cool liquid tingles on his fingertip.

_Draw the sigils, little fox. Remember your intent._

Reaching for the top right side of the door-frame, he starts the first symbol. It looks a little like a bunch of Norse runes put together, but more jagged and sharp. For protection. A shield around his house. _Nothing that means_ _harm_ _me or mine will cross this home’s threshold_ \- it means. Simple, straightforward, he doesn’t even have to ponder on that one. As he circles it closed, the dark brown mixture shimmers a startling gold - but not like the eyes of a beta, more like a warm sunshine, light and bright - then it settles back to its natural color, exuding an aura that nips almost playfully at his skin.

A quiet laugh bubbles out of his chest, all the nerves, anticipation, frustration leaving on a single huff of breath. He feels lighter, easier inside his own skin, and maybe for the first time ever the hollows in his chest pulse with something akin to happiness. And that’s what stops him, smile sliding off.

Frantically, he searches for the weird echoes, the waves of _not_ his feeling, the _voice_ that has no right to be there, but he _has_ to be-

_You’re going to draw the other symbols, darling, or are you already too tired?_

It’s teasing, cooing almost, a hint of amusement and- and- _pride?_ But there’s something more there, too, in the rich, dark tones, something heavier - and not in the way that makes him hot, no, rather in the way that cools his very blood.

With a long exhale, his heart trying to beat out of his chest, Stiles wills himself to calm down.

 _Don’t worry, little fox, I’m still here._ Warmth, both familiar and completely new, spreads, feather-light, under his skin, over his back, around his waist, brushes hot against the side of neck. _Draw the other symbols, Stiles. It’s alright, you’re doing wonderful. Just remember the intent._

His throat is dry when he swallows, a shuddering breath caught in his lungs. But he reaches for the paint anyway, starting the second sigil right under the first, brain already switching to the task.

This one looks softer around the edges, consisting - in a way - of people Stiles considers welcome, one’s that are safe to pass and stay, be protected within his home. He leaves room to add more, even though he could just draw another sigil later on. It just feels right, at the moment. And as the symbol is finished, flashes gold, the energy stays, as much different from the previous in its aura as in its look. The protecting one has a cool, sharp, but reassuring feel, like a steel door or his bat, and this one’s warmer, welcoming - both equally pulsing with _safe, home, calm._

Stiles blinks, marveling at the wards. He can already feel them, around the house, in its walls, inside _himself_ , like he’s bound to his home more than ever.

_You are, now. It’s marked with your magic and your blood, so it’s bound to you._

An unpleasant question builds at his tongue. Does it mean he can’t leave it since-

_No. But as long as the wards hold, you’ll feel them. Stronger or weaker, but the awareness will be there when you look for it._

That makes sense, he supposes.

_How you feel now won’t last long, it’s just an effect of performing the wards. It will faint with time, but if ever the wards are broken, you’ll feel it._

He looks down, thinks about the third sigil - the „alarm” one, as he dubbed it. Just another reason more for it.

It’s even easier this time around, the symbol is the simplest one, a ward that’s supposed to warn him if anyone crosses onto the grounds - and that’s the only difficult part, expanding it around the house, not into its walls. But it just feels like taking a deeper breath, picturing the bubble covering the grounds from the street to a little behind the end of their backyard. When he finishes, watching the golden flash, exhaustion creeps up onto him without much preamble.

The ache is back with vengeance, almost bringing him to his knees. It echoes in a way that pulses through his muscles and yet his magic is still simmering low in his belly - feeling sated, but thrumming with both satisfaction and more yearning.

Holding himself up on a railing, Stiles trudges up the stairs, brows furrowed in concentration. It’s so _weird._

Why does it feel that way?

_This is your first time consciously using your magic. You don’t yet have a grasp on how much to use. It’s normal to feel exhausted._

So he probably used too much. That’s about right. But it’s still swirling through his blood, his tired, aching body, a low thunder of power, sated and satisfied, yes, yet eerily stronger now, why-

_That’s normal, fortunately or not._

The voice feels strangely flat, like that’s not something he wants to tell Stiles, but needs him to know. He swallows, climbing the stairs.

 _What does that mean?_ he wonders, asks his own mind.

_You’ve barely just ignited, little fox, and your power will continue to grow. Every time you use it, it’s going to get stronger. And the more you use it, the more you’ll want to use it. As I said, a blessing-_

_And a curse..._

That- He stops, the door to his bedroom somehow glaring at him. That sounds quite honestly both exhilarating and terrifying. The voice hums, as if agreeing. Stiles wonders at something else, if only to stop the first tendrils of panic.

_Barely ignited? When did I...?_

_When do you think?_

It’s not even patronising, in all honesty - it’s encouraging. Like the voice is confident Stiles already has that knowledge and just tries to coax him into finding it. So he swallows, thinks back to the weird moments he couldn’t explain, sifts through them - the mountain ash? Outside the club? No, that was definitely something, but doesn’t seem quite right, it must’ve been something bigger, more-

The split.

Stiles remembers now, the surge of _something_ inside of him, all encompassing and dizzyingly powerful, drawing him out. It didn’t tear him away wholly, not really, he could still feel his shadow out there, for some reason, up until the school, until- Or not?

Air gets stuck in his lungs, choking and clawing at his throat. He gasps, staggers to hold himself up on the wall, can’t think about that, can’t, not now, not-

_Breathe, Stiles, everything’s alright._

It’s tender, it’s so fucking tender, a murmur of warmth, soothing at the very abyss around his heart, constricting around his chest. He grasps at it, clings to it like a lifeline, trying to match his heart and his breath to the steady pulse of darkness surrounding him all around.

_That’s right, darling, you’re doing great. Just breathe, don’t worry, it's alright…_

The voice calms him, smooths over the edges of panic, wraps him in a blanket of comfort Stiles doesn’t have the energy to refuse. He’s tired, so fucking tired, his body aches so badly it makes his muscles tremble and there’s nothing he’d want more than finally get some rest.

When he calms down enough to move, he barely has the mind to get into the bathroom and wash up his hands, before putting the mixture in an empty jar to stash it in the closet with the rest of supplies. Then he falls backwards onto his bed, mind still reeling. It feels like more than exhaustion, the way he aches, almost like-

_You shouldn’t feel the pain anymore._

The voice is quiet, subdued somehow, he could practically picture the frown-

„Well, I do...” he whispers to himself, the ghost sensation always somewhere in the back of his mind. It barely bothers him on a normal day, but doesn’t change the fact it is _still_ there.

_Get some sleep, little fox, let me take care of that for you..._

When he wakes up the next morning, he can barely remember what his dream was about - only a foggy sense of another body, of cool skin and warm embrace, of low heat and pulsing kind of pleasure. It makes him vaguely sick, for some reason, but at the same time he’s clearly a bit too hot and a bit too bothered, uncomfortable for a lot of reasons he can’t fathom right now because of one thing that stands out.

The constant ache he’s got used to these past months, the pain rooted deep within his bones, his muscles, the very matter of his being - it’s gone. No trace, no echo, nothing. Like it was never there. He almost lets himself be grateful, but maybe it’s just another trick, a different kind of tactic, he shouldn’t trust it.

The thing is - it doesn’t come back. Days, weeks go by, and it’s still not there. So it gets easier to accept it, respond to the voice almost like it’s a friend, banter, teasing and all - on times, even though he won’t let himself think that way, it almost feels like flirting - even the dream-lessons, whole conversations on the nature of magic, of the ways to use it, ways to help him with control, dark eyes fathomless, glittering in the moonlight, and a sharp smirk on full lips that simmers a low heat in his blood, become a part of a routine Stiles starts to _enjoy_.

Then everything goes to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this one got away from me. Just something about writing magic, I really liked that part so it got so big. 
> 
> Fyi - I think I'll be updating as I am now, so roughly around two weeks. I'm slowly getting back to writing - had to take a break, because my wrists were hurt quite badly, but it's getting better - so that schedule should allow me to finish this fic before I run out of written chapters ;p There'll be around 24/25 of them, I think. Some longer like this one, but most will be half the length - definitely the next few will be almost perfectly half as long. Do you have any preference about that, maybe? 
> 
> And how did you like this chapter? Do you like the magic? I'm having lots of fun figuring this one out, for sure, I've read so many great fics with different takes on this whole spark thing, hope mine won't disappoint ;p Also - any future predictions? Something you'd like to see in future? Let me know! ^^  
> All the love to you, guys, hope you're staying well and safe ❤


	4. complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags added, check them out! And hope y'all will enjoy ❤

The shift - the _feeling_ that something’s not exactly right - starts on the trip to Mexico.

Derek’s missing, they get a lead, make a plan and disguise it as a camping trip, all the while some new kind of trepidation, wariness, lodges itself in the abyss of Stiles’ chest, in that weight at the back of his mind, dropping way down to his stomach. He chalks it up to stress, to worry, to his hyperactive, overthinking brain, ignores the voice in his head saying:

 _Be careful, Stiles, I won’t be able to help you out there_.

Ignores how the voice already seemed especially distant, and somehow more poisonous, those past weeks as Stiles spent more and more time teaching Malia - stayed pretty quiet otherwise, _unnervingly_ so, weaker or maybe more careful? Was it biding its time, planning? He shakes off those thoughts as soon as they appear because they don’t make sense - it’s his _brain_ , Stiles repeats to himself, dealing with trauma, there’s nothing more to it. Never was and never will be. Ignores the slight half-exasperation, half-indignation the voice gets every time he dismisses it that way. Of course his imagined head-mate would feel so done with him, Stiles felt done with himself more often than not. But he’s going to be alright, the whole pack is on it, they’re bringing Derek back, no matter what, there’s _nothing_ to worry about, nothing aside helping their missing packmate.

As they fill in the jeep - excitement, stress, conviction heavy in the air - as Stiles drives them away from Beacon Hills, the shadows in-between his ribs tremble, pull back, like something is being taken from him, and the weight in his mind gets lighter, airy, _absent_.

 _Be careful, little fox,_ the growl-like voice repeats one last time, muffled as if from great distance, _don't die out there.  
_

Nerves tighten around Stiles’ throat then, a squirmy ball of anxiety raising somewhere around his lungs, heavy with meaning he’s too afraid to touch, even when it’s becoming apparent that _ignoring the problem until it goes away_ doesn’t exactly work in his favor anymore. Because it’s _worse_ now.

Scott claps a hand on his shoulder, a light, reassuring smile on his lips, ever the optimistic one.

“We’re going to get him,” he says, as if that’s Stiles’ primary concern-

But it should be, so Stiles nods, only partly acknowledging how Scott looks him over one more time - suspecting, but letting it rest as he knows Stiles wants him to, because that’s the type of friend his practically brother is - and Stiles puts his mind on what’s important now.

The Mexico-trip is truly a mess, as expected, but even more than they could have imagined. Calaveras capture them, because of course they would, torture Scott for good measure, Malia kisses him - and it's nice, it really is, if not for the slightest of itches that crawls over his skin, spikes something nerve-wracking in not at all butterflies-type of way, more in disbelief, a need to get away that's as stupid as it's unexpected - and Derek’s a teenager now, too. So they get back and have to figure out what’s wrong, what to do with him, then there are _fucking_ Berserkers too and it gets even messier.

Still, with all those distractions for his brain to focus on, to overthink, the absent space at the back of his head remains, creeping up on his thoughts ever so often - that uneasy emptiness echoing along the abyss in his chest, a pit of something too close to _yearning_ to be comfortable - but for what? There are suspicions, _one suspicion_ , held back by Stiles’ sheer will, because he won’t let himself address it, won’t entertain the possibility. It’s too close for comfort. Maybe that’s why he welcomes all the distractions he can get.

Because Malia shows up in his room one night. Then the next. And another one. Until she’s there almost every time he wakes up, until it’s not just him trying to teach her about being human, until it’s lips and limbs and heat. And Stiles knows it isn’t really healthy, she should be learning how to be human, not getting all the relationship and sex in the way to mess it up even more. But he’s already strung tight, hot from feverish dreams that he _won’t_ admit to, ignoring a mountain of issues, so he went with it, took the offered distraction. And just as that kiss, it’s nice, pleasurable even, yet... Doesn’t really _feel_ _right_ , some part of his brain trying to scream _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

And _those_ dreams.

Stiles can’t remember even a lick of them, just phantom impression, teeth and hands and _heat_ that doesn’t leave as he wakes up, already on edge. There’s no pattern to them, nothing noticeable - aside from one thing. The first time he came up from that dream with Malia still at his back - she tried to touch him.

And Stiles _recoiled_.

So hard and so fast it’s almost like it would burn him. And her touch felt _wrong_ , made his skin crawl with the need to _get away_ , not let her anywhere near him. It never lessened - every time, without a fault, after one of those dreams, he couldn’t stand her skin, her presence, close.

It’s weird and concerning and he doesn't want to think about it, about the way his heart pulses with hurt, with _longing_ , and the empty abyss squirms in mourning, in _anger_ , like it’s his own fault.

Malia leaves him alone on those times, doesn’t even much question it and he doesn’t try to uncover what’s the deal, afraid of answers and admitting to that fear, continues as normal like it’s not even happening. But it’s not that easy. In fact it gets worse. The longer his chest, his mind, feels lighter, emptier than it should, the more agitated Stiles becomes. _What’s happening to him?_

Then the full moon is close, Scott bites a kid with anger issues and there’s a lot on their plates, yet through it all Stiles can’t stop worrying about the empty spaces in his consciousness, between his lungs, knuckles scraping over his sternum. They’re making plans, getting ready to survive the moon, he’s working on it with Malia and can’t exactly focus. So maybe that’s why, as he stands in the basement, looking at those shining blue eyes, at the fangs, his mind goes back-

“I remember everything I did. And the worst part - I remember _liking it._ ”

-back to a time he rarely lets himself revisit. A time laced with fear, with nightmares, with thinking that he’s losing his mind and yet feeling powerful like never before, tasting pain that felt like ecstasy, getting a glimpse into a mind so fascinating, so inhuman, so different - the echoes of rage and hunger and passion too big and too allencompasing to seem real, achievable - that he couldn't get enough, wanted to see _more_. So Stiles doesn’t let himself think to that time, to consider, because that - _that’s dangerous_. Stiles fears what he could find if he looked at it closely. _He can’t-_

“...when I came through it I learned something else. Control - is _overrated_.”

And that last part is only half-true. In ways that are just as scary as those implications he can’t face, those suspicions creeping up at the edges of his too-empty chest. But he can’t focus on that now, _won’t_ , so he focuses on Malia, gets her out of her bonds in a reckless spur-of-the-moment decision following his gut instinct and it works out. As he’s holding her, remembering - despite himself - the way dark eyes watched him, attentive, fathomless, the way they looked at him like he’s the sole focus, like there’s nothing else worth more, his heart leaps, kicks up, at the fuzzy not-memory. A chill runs along Stiles’ spine, trickles down the ridges and seeps in-between, rolls through his body, his mind, settles in the writhing shadows that welcome it with something too close to a weep or a moan, and Stiles shuts his eyes tight, swallows-

The voice hums, a low, growl-like sound that sends goosebumps raising on Stiles’ skin. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to, really, but Stiles breaths out and deflates, tension bleeding out on a gust of air.

Somewhere along the way Stiles’ nightmares changed too. They continue to haunt him but some turned to _the clearing_ , the Nemeton - just that he’s all _alone_ there, suffocating with the way his chest aches. In others his pack falls apart, his friends leave, Stiles falls underwater and can’t breach the surface, gets torn apart, clean in the middle or to small bits too frayed and damaged to be put together. Sometimes there’s a mirror, a reflection not quite him, bleeding, dying, cracking, turning to dust and ash and Stiles can’t do anything, shatters the surface trying to end the vision or get to the other side, doesn't even know which. It’s better than those nightmares he used to have, but still leaves him unsettled, a ball of something heavy and trembling in-between his lungs.

That night though, right after the full moon, he finally opens his eyes to the _correct_ clearing - knows deep down in his bones it’s not just a normal nightmare, the air has an unique energy not easily mistaken, the moon’s bright in the sky - and Void looks him over, dark gaze distant, colder than it used to be, but doesn’t move from his place on the stump.

Stiles swallows thickly, his whole body gaining an awareness that prickles at his nerves.

„Took you long enough,” he says - and promptly cringes. Why did he just say that? The callback really feels like a wrong step, like his foot catching on a rock and his body already falling.

One brow raises at him, something flickers in those dark eyes.

„Did it, now?” It’s a low murmur, an almost caress, but as sharp and cold as a blade. Void’s gaze narrows, lips quirking in a half-smirk. „You missed me, little one?”

The words hit - and they hit in a way they absolutely _shouldn’t -_ cutting too close, echoing in the abyss of his chest with the tone his shadow uses. The playfulness, _teasing_ normally there is seared through with deadly calm, the quiet before a storm hits, a lightning right before the thunder that rattles bone-deep.

Stiles worries at his bottom lip, pulse pounding in his throat, lost for words as he rarely is in his life. It’s weird, the way he doesn’t know how to act, if he should be angry, cautious, sarcastic or just shrug it off, feels like any misstep will result in a disaster. It’s just his brain messing with him, and yet-

„Hardly, you’re worse than a mirror and I hate those,” he settles on, gathering the courage to step closer, to crawl on the stump and sit beside Void, face him even though his heart hammers painfully against his ribs - dark eyes don’t leave him even for a second.

„Then what are you doing here, Stiles?” Void cocks his head, something freezing slides along the words, along his name.

It wakes a chilling shiver down his body, but Stiles refuses to back away. Feels like he’s staring a tiger down, one ready to pounce and devour or tear him apart, maybe all at once, so he steels his whitering resolve, teeth gritting together, and _leans closer_.

„You’re supposed to be teaching me, Void. We have a deal.”

In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t smart to bring that up. Stiles doesn’t exactly know what his part is - the memory makes his insides heat up, sends small sparks along his skin, but he refuses it vehemently every time the thought raises up - it's still _just his brain_ , so it shouldn't matter. And yet his heart drops now, because Void’s eyes blaze up, flash silver, then Stiles gasps as he’s pinned back to the Nemeton, the demon keeping him down with a hand on his chest.

„ _Do we,_ Stiles, do we have a deal, now?” he snarls, right into Stiles' face, the palm freezing-cold right above his heart, so cold it _burns_ , all the way through to his spine. And Stiles barely holds back a whimper, grasps at Void’s wrist, but doesn’t try to force the arm away.

It’s a test. It has to be.

„You want to back off, Void?” His heart is all but trying to break through his ribs as their gazes meet - the demon looks possibly livid. „I thought you keep your promises.”

„Don’t _taunt_ me, Stiles.” Void’s voice is barely above a whisper as shadows gather around the Nogitsune, tensing and writhing, until they’re inky black and swaying in too many tendrils - _tails,_ they’re tails, _nine, at the least._ „Do you know how I got them? What they mean?” Void’s head tilts, eyes flashing silver for just a second, prompting him on. Stiles shifts, shudders under that ablaze look, but doesn’t try to get away.

„Every hundred years or as an accomplishment, a milestone passed.” That’s what Kira told him, what he’s read, but Void’s still looking at him expectantly and something flickers in his mind as he realizes- „Keeping a promise.”

„Yes, keeping a promise. I’m no _oathbreaker_ , I’m a Nogitsune because I refuse to cover to anyone, any god or deity thinking itself above - they keep no sway over me. I’m bound by my own word and I’ve always kept it, fulfilled every favor granted, you’ll find no broken tails on me.”

The hand on Stiles’ chest flexes, but it’s not to hurt, no, he can feel the muscles and tendons moving under his own fingers, the skin smooth. Void’s words, though, keep all of his attention.

„That’s why you were so pissed back then,” he wonders, out loud, before he can stop it.

For so long he refused to go back to that time, to thinking of what-ifs, of Kira’s words, _offended_ , of the story her mother told, of how he could almost understand- _No, stop_ , he halts himself halfway through the thought, because it’s dangerous, too dangerous, to even entertain. But maybe that's exactly why he can't help himself, wonders yet again in a span of barely a day - like it won't leave him now, since he brought those thoughts to the surface.

Stiles gulps, swallows through dry throat, looks up to Void - strangely quiet, like he’s letting him get to his own conclusion. Staying silent on purpose. Stiles needs to get back on track.

He takes his hands away, observing how Void follows his moves with careful attention.

„So are you going to go back to teaching me?”

Black eyes flit back to his, narrow as the demon cocks his head. Stiles can’t really read him, but it seems he’s contemplating. Maybe considers getting out of it, weaving around the words, proving to be the trickster he knows, but then the hand relaxes on his chest, the eyes glint with something new, and fingers brush along his sternum, the touch crackling through the shirt, along his skin like an electric current. Stiles needs to bite his lip to hold back any sounds. The Nogitsune watches him, attentive, and seems somehow satisfied.

„You’re right, little fox, we _do have_ a deal,” he murmurs, a dark, rich tone that slides down Stiles body like warm honey and _oh no_ , that sounds so much worse now. What did he get himself into?

Void grins, a small but sharp thing, before backing away, allowing Stiles to sit up - he does, watching the demon warily. Until Void raises his hand, palm up, makes a little ball of white fire dance above it and Stiles becomes instantly too fascinated to stay away - leans in closer instead, eyes on the flames. It’s beautiful.

„Your foxfire?”

The smile in response sharpens, the light catching on all the shadows of the fox’s face, dancing in inky black eyes.

„Yes.” He makes it swivel around his hand, gestures Stiles to raise his. „Now, give me your hand.”

Stiles hesitates, just for a second, but when Void reaches out, clear intent on his face, he gives in, raises his own, lets Void cradle it in his fingers. They're _just_ that bit longer, palm a bit wider, skin cool and smooth against his warmed up. The contact catches breath in his lungs.

But Stiles doesn’t have the time to think about it before Void brings the hand with foxfire above his outstretched one. His eyes widen, heart picking up its pace-

„You ready, little fox?” Void arches one brow, the fingers around his hand firm but so, _so gentle_. It feels like too much, too much- _Not enough_.

Stiles swallows and nods, relishes in the fire’s heat, in the coolness of the hand cradling his, in the way the demon indulges him as Stiles grins with newfound well of fascination. Void’s dark eyes never become less attentive and Stiles pretends not to notice, not to care just how- how impossibly _tired_ the demon seems. There’s frost behind his gaze, wary and tinged with something Stiles can’t or won’t name, a curve to his smirk more like a gash from a blade than too sharp teeth that would leave a pulsing mark.

When he wakes up, better rested than ever these past empty weeks, the memory of these barely noticeable changes sets uneasiness deep inside Stiles, off-balance and itching. And he’s alone again, even with Malia at his back, his heart constricting painfully in his chest, suffocating in the shadows, and he has to bite down on any sound trying to escape, shuts his eyes tight. It’s weird and frustrating and it should never feel like this, whatever it is, fuels the fear of facing what’s staring him in the face. A fragile, whipsy trail of _something_ in the abyss of his chest, reaching, _calling out_ -

And Stiles tries to ignore it anyway, fiercely, vehemently, the walls of self-inflicted ignorance crumbling down with every day his head is empty of the voice, of the weight, echoes around his frantic heart. Ignores it even as he blinks eyes open to the clearing, so rarely now that later he’d count it on his fingers, as Void’s gaze stays just that bit frosted over, smirk just that bit sharper. Ignores it.

Until he can’t anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. _Guys_. Over a 100 kudos?! Ahh, y'all are the best, thank you so much ❤
> 
> This chapter's shorter, but that's partly because I don't like rewriting canon scenes, so I tried to go more the descriptive path here - and in the future as well. What do you think? I'm not 100% satisfied with it, but then the next chapter is one of my personal faves! And it will be longer again, with an important plot point! But it may take longer to update, it's the last weeks of my uni classes and I have tons of stuff to do, papers, exams, _stress_ ,y'know, so I need to focus on that. Wish me luck! And look out for the next chapter ;p
> 
> Also, just some fyi, if it' not stated in a chapter that something went differently, then you can assume it happened like in canon.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this update, all the love ❤


	5. done pretending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be studying for a test tomorrow and an exam next week, but here I am polishing this chapter and posting it. lmao, wish me luck.
> 
> Some general warnings for this chapter:  
> New tags! Canon typical violence - this chapter refers to the episode with the virus at school and contains a variation on the scene with the Chemist (the killer).   
> There may also be some possible, light dub-con in the latter part - doesn't get too far and depends mostly on how you see dub-con in general, but I'm gonna warn you about the possibility. Let me know if I should post more warnings/more details on the warnings in the end notes or add something to the tags!
> 
> Also, all the love for everyone that kudosed, commented, or bookmarked, thank you so much ❤ Hope y'all will enjoy this chapter!

The dead pool is scrambling his brain.

Stiles is trying to come up with _something, anything_ to help, but his head feels empty, even while buzzing with nerves and jumbled thoughts. There’s a pattern to that hollowness, an echo of his own mind where a different weight should be, and that’s not at all reassuring – because after every dream in that Nemeton’s clearing he wakes up alone in his mind the next day. And as rare as the dreams are, that time after – weird, cold feeling lodged in-between his ribs – is even worse. The hollow chasm in his chest aches with the kind of darkness that he’s barely managing to ignore, all the while he feels lighter in a way that clearly screams that he’s missing something. It makes the tension lacing his body almost unbearable. There’s no comfort in the shadows around his heart and he’s already strung tight as his nerves burn from excess stress and magic that seems to be trying to melt his brain with no way to exhaust it. Even running on fumes the power wants more.

Stiles snatches a blank page and pencil, books with runes opening after just a flick of his wrist. Protection, he thinks, is what he needs – maybe then he’ll be able to think straight. And there’s still a part of the dead pool they didn’t uncover. For all intents and purposes, Stiles’ name shouldn’t be there – as far as anyone knows he’s human – but Stiles be damned if he didn’t take a precaution, paranoid as he is, because _somehow_ maybe someone would know.

Drawing the sigil is strangely comforting. Just like the last time when he worked on the ones to protect his house. It’s instinctual on a level that drives him forward – he did always trust his gut – and he barely stops to think about it. As if in some kind of a trance, or maybe his research spirals, there’s no interruption, no distraction, just clear focus on his goal. One hour later he has the sigil ready, pulsing with strong, vibrant energy even on the paper.

Protection. Shields. Of any and every kind.

Stiles hesitates, looking the symbol over. Maybe it’s too strong. Maybe it would alert others instead of protecting him. But what would be the point of that? His spark guided him in doing it, so it must be good, right? _Remember the intent_ , echoes inside his head. Just a memory. He’s still all alone. _Alone_.

Swallowing the sudden, _aching_ loneliness that bursts open inside his chest, he swivels in his chair and gets up to bring out the assortment of ingredients. He even got his very own mortar and pestle now – still needs to carve runes on it, but that’s for another time. So Stiles lets his instincts guide him yet again, pulling herbs and oils, mixing them together. He’s pretty sure he glimpsed astragalus there, birch bark, burdock root, rue, devils’ claw and fennel seeds along with cinnamon, of course, because somehow that one gets in everywhere. He recognizes some from his home protecting sigils, so that soothes something in him, but there’s an undercurrent of different awareness running through his blood. This one’s powerful. It thrums in his veins like thunder. Foreboding. But he needs it.

This time when Stiles holds up the dagger to his palm, he doesn’t hesitate. Pain shoots down his arm, cut off almost immediately by the itching of a healing wound, that little thrill of hot pleasure along his spine unnoticed among the tension. With a flick of his wrist, three drops land in the mixture, a surge of power in his body signaling his magic’s content before he gets to mixing it thoroughly. He stops as it’s almost ready.

Something tugs at his awareness, at the thrum in his blood. Reaching for the correct jar, Stiles frowns. Mountain ash? _Huh_. After just a second of hesitation, he adds it to the mix and his blood simmers a little more.

As the paint is finished, Stiles gets back to his desk, reaching for a thin brush purchased just a few days before, after their first conversation about potentially putting runes on him. The memory’s still clear if a bit blurry around the edges.

„Druids and humans with a little spark in them use runes to draw on the magic all around them,” Void has said, voice smooth and even, without the edge of boredom Stiles would expect from him, „to focus and direct it. You don’t necessarily need them, definitely won’t in the future, but for now they can be helpful in keeping your power more in check.”

Stiles mulled the words over then, shooing away the wandering thoughts on how he could draw from around him – surely he could even if he didn’t need to – to focus on what Void meant. What it meant for _him._

„It’s like with the house, right?”

Void titled his head a little, a clear prompt to go on.

„I mean– I _think_ I could probably keep up the wards without runes, just with my consciousness or whatever, but putting down the sigils I _guess_ trapped some of my power, so I don’t need to keep it up at all times? Because the sigils keep them up?” He frowned, trying to hold onto his own thought process, because he clearly was onto something if the smile spreading his shadow’s lips was any indication.

„Aren’t you a clever one,” he murmured, dark eyes a little hooded. It would feel patronizing, should feel that way, but the lightly pleased tone rattled Stiles in a completely different way he didn’t want to think about. „Go on, what more?”

He had to take a long breath to clear his mind.

„So, if I wanted to shield myself, it’s the same thing, right? I could put it up by myself, just the _believe and it will work_ thing, keep it up without anything. But if I wanted to put it on and don’t worry about holding it up, then...” He hesitated, words pressing on his teeth, to look at Void for... for what, exactly? The smile was still there, a bit softer, and one brow raised in clear invitation. Stiles took it. „I would need to put the rune on myself, right? Create a sigil, make it a like a tattoo.” The thought of needles still put him off a bit, but not as much as it used to.

„ _Yes_ , little one, very good,” Void murmured, the praise coming through that weird layer of frost, and Stiles _hated_ how it made his insides fill up with butterflies. „It doesn’t need to be a tattoo, not in the sense you’d think, your magic’s enough to make it...”

Stiles remembers it now, how Void described the many different ways he could go about it. The simplest, he decided, was to try and do it as close to how he put the previous sigils on the house as possible. It’s familiar, he’s done it already, so that made sense. And that’s how he was going to do it now – or try, at least.

Putting the brush’s tip in the paint, he halts. Where would he place it? _If you want to draw it first, then somewhere with easy access._ Logical. Void’s words are a strange comfort, even if Stiles doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to acknowledge how the absence feels like a punch to the gut. Instead, he looks himself over, eyes locking on his left forearm. It could work. His friends already know about him learning to use runes, his dad too, so that’d be easy to explain.

Laying his forearm on the desk, as still and steady as he’s able to, he decides on the patch of pale skin just under the crook of his elbow, with the most space available. Messing up shouldn’t be a problem, but something tells him it’s better to ace it on the first try.

His skin prickles, a charged undercurrent running just beneath it, as he puts the brush’s tip to his forearm. _Deep breath in. Deep breath out._ His hand moves almost without his conscious effort, paint spreading into the sigil laying in front of him. It’s an intricate one – maybe even more than the protection one he put on the house – with strong, simple lines that look like a mix between Celtic and Norse runes but more modern, put together in a circle.

His skin tingles under every layer of paint, blood singing with anticipation even when the hollows of his chest pulses, deepens, threatens to swallow him. If he had any mind to pay closer attention, maybe he’d stop before finishing, but high as he was on his own power, he draws the sigil closed and gasps. It’s not even finished, but he can already feel it surging through his body. Almost can’t wait for the paint to dry out, before putting his hand over it. Then he’s _pressing,_ picturing it in his mind, the sigil branding itself on him, sinking into the skin, the muscle, his very being. His skin _burns_ , the exact shape of the symbol, and Stiles clenches his jaw. It burns and burns, and _burns,_ blood singing in his veins, until it stops. Abruptly. The loss of sensation almost sends him off-kilter.

Blinking slowly, Stiles takes his hand off, brushes the flakes of dry paint away – and there it is. A deep burgundy, almost black, something between a tattoo and a mark. He expected it to be more brownish like the paint, but all in all, it definitely looks better that way. Badass, he thinks. Because it really is.

Absently rubbing at his sternum, he looks over the sigil and feels calm, the thrum in his blood satisfied, even if for just a little bit. The abyss in his chest howls, _mourns,_ and Stiles pretends he doesn’t notice, writes it off as simply being tired.

It takes time for him to finally realize why he’s _still_ feeling so empty, constantly aching in not at all physical sense, why his brain isn’t commenting on his life with that dark voice Stiles got used to by now, why there’s no more dream-lessons, only nightmares or fever that fade in the morning. The abyss in his chest squirms, spreads with every day his mind stays quiet, nights alone in his head, space there that felt too light – almost as if he lost something along the way. He wants to ignore it, he truly does, but he _can’t_ , and his excuses are running out–

A terrifying kind of suspicion – familiar one, kept in the darkest corner of his mind – creeps up on him with the passing time, alone and _yearning_ for the thing he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ admit to. He already knew the reason, in the darkness surrounding his heart, trying to both suffocate and comfort him, but kept ignoring it, pushing back, shoving under piles of research and another body that didn’t really _feel_ _right_ , because that’s what he did best, always, _ignored the problem until it went away_. Until he couldn’t anymore.

All that brewing storm comes to a crash in one of probably the most horrifying moments in his life. The day the virus traps them in school.

Later he’d ponder on it that it shouldn’t affect him, not mortally – he’s human, at least partially, and if not, then, then–

Then he’s a Spark, a well of power, he’s got a protective sigil burned on his arm, it’s itching the whole time, so he ignores it. Ignores that he feels lightheaded, high on, _on_ _something –_ the fear, the uncertainty, pure chaos surrounding them, wrapping around him like cotton, warm and sweet, seeping right through his pores, into the hollow darkness inside his rib-cage. It shouldn’t feel like that – like satisfaction, like a simmer of power down his spine – but then it starts to turn ugly, the weird sickness ravaging through his body, warring against whatever that’s making him feel this good. It’s a battle that leaves him disoriented, weak, but he tries, he _tries,_ because his friends have it so much worse, they’re close to dropping like flies. So he goes out, to find something, anything, to help, and runs right into a trap. Because of course he would.

Stiles’ friends are dying, closed off in a vault under the school, and he’s being directed to the locker room with a gun at his back. Not pressing, not _yet_ , but his whole body tenses and locks up anyway, barely able to move around to face the barrel. It feels like his blood freezes over, seeps frost through his muscles into bones.

_Please, please, please–_

He chants inside his terrifyingly empty head, dark and blank. Tries to talk to the killer, grasp at the wisps of stupid courage to prolong the inevitable, search for the power that’s normally cursing through his body – but there’s nothing, not a trace, or it’s trapped so deep below the cold he can’t reach it.

_C’mon, where are you? C’mon, please, help–_

It’s not a rational thought that makes him step closer, press his forehead against the barrel, shut his eyes tighter than it’s possible.

„One,” the killer starts.

_Void_ –

It’s a plea, a horrible attempt at waking something up inside or reaching for something cut off. The abyss around his heart screams, pulses, the rune on his forearm _burns_.

_Void, please!_

„Two.”

His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together and muscles bunching up in painful knots all over him. The sigil burns and burns, and _burns_ , thawing the frost, flaring over skin, under it, through his whole arm, whole body, stocks a fire that’s fierce and hot and as _black_ as the shadow suffocating his rapidly beating heart. It coils and spreads, and lashes out-

„Thre–”

_VOID!_

The gun goes off.

Stiles reels back, the shot blowing up in his eardrums, splattering warm sticky crimson on his face.

There was a strange echo to the shot, a blast of sound that shouldn’t be possible, but as Stiles opens his eyes, ears ringing, only half aware he’s still alive, the chemist lays on the floor – face torn and bloodied. _Scorched_. The gun – or what’s left of it – looks like it exploded from the inside. The sight is something right out of a horror movie, but he can’t look away, frozen in place as the burn in his veins quiets to a low hum and the shadows squirm, more hollow than ever.

It burns itself under his eyelids as Stiles seems permanently caught between cold terror and bone-breaking, shameful relief. He’s alive, breathing, the killer won’t ever take another life, but he can’t shake the worry about just _what_ caused this– this–

Someone calls his name and–

“Are you alright?”

Stiles blinks, rips his gaze away to see Scott’s father looking him over with frantic eyes and his own pistol in hand. Numbly, Stiles nods, and agent McCall immediately turns his attention to the chemist, _to the body_. Mangled face and blown up gun.

“It must’ve malfunctioned.”

“What?”

“The gun.” McCall shakes his head, seems to not quite believe his own words. “It’s highly unlikely, especially in the hands of a professional killer–” he swipes his eyes over Stiles again “–not even talking about you not having a scratch, but… it happens.”

As baffled as McCall seems about how unlikely it is, Stiles will take it instead of the fact he knows to be true – that the surge of power from his sigil couldn’t possibly be just a whim, that _he did that –_ because there’s too much to unpack there. Too many thoughts and buried fears, a storm raging on the horizon, so Stiles gets his head in gear again.

“And why are you even here?”

That seems to shake him back, a frantic look on Stiles again.

“There’s a cure-”

The second the name leaves his lips – the word floating in Stiles’ mind like he should’ve known about it already, should’ve _learned_ – he takes off, faster than ever.

Because his friends are still closed in the vault, _dying_. With the cure _inside_. And he’s going to save them, so help him God, even if he’s feeling like he’s going to faint; as he almost does, after screaming his throat raw, he’s dimly aware there are tears running down his cheeks and his chest _hurts_. The darkness seems to welcome him, but it’s not the one he wants. Scott clutches at him briefly, hugs with a still too weak embrace, Malia leaves, and Kira smiles weakly, but as the danger passes, Stiles can’t focus on anything else but the weeping echo in his chest.

Long hours after everything is taken care of, as he’s discharged by a paramedic, has seen his friends safely to their homes and his father reluctantly got back to the station, Stiles is still shaking. The second he gets home he takes the stairs two at a time and almost crashes into the chair at his desk, the needy crackle of power in his veins itchy and desperate, only pushing him to design a new sigil.

It’s so much harder, this time, because he can’t fall into the easy, almost trance-like state he did the previous ones in. And he’s perfectly aware of the reason. Stiles doesn’t want to admit what he knows, _known_ for weeks now to be true – that it’s not just his brain working through trauma, that it’s _real_. But he’s shaken, the abyss in his chest crippling him with a sense of mourning, of _yearning_ , so strong he can’t think straight. He _wants_ it back. So he flips through the runes, bites at his fingers, pencils, tears the papers and whines in frustration. It’s impossible and it’s driving him out of his _mind_! A desperation that really shouldn’t be there claws at his insides, the darkness spreading, threatening to pull him under-

Stiles stills, frost seeping down his veins.

He faces the abyss, looks deep – deep enough to _feel_ it reaching out, drawing him in, calling–

_Void._

It’s not a plea, this time, nor a scream like hours ago. It’s _intent_.

The sigil starts coming together before he knows it. An intricate thing, full of thin, curved lines, slightly tilted to the right, almost like calligraphy – Stiles would never imagine something so delicate and beautiful could come from under his fingers – but there’s a sharpness to it, a cutting edge not unlike the deadly blade of a katana. As he finishes, places his fingertips on the symbol, gooseflesh rises all over his skin.

Ancient, powerful, wild, mischievous, _passionate,_ a heady mix that sends thrills up his spine, so undeniably _perfect,_ so very tempting, purring with intent that fills the space inside his ribs.

A terrifying clarity cuts through his thoughts. Because he knows. Feels it deep down in the darkest corners of his soul – where to put the sigil. Where it _belongs_.

It makes him freeze again.

That’s it.

It’s _real_.

It’s real. And it’s terrifying. And– And he doesn’t have to do it. Stiles looks at the rune, trails the lines with his fingertips, little shivers running up his arms, and knows he could leave it here. Bury the sigil, the memory, the awareness. Be free. Alone.

A hissing, trembling breath leaves his lips.

On some level it occurs to Stiles that if he never goes through with this there will be hell to pay if ever the Nogitsune gets out, and worse than it was, that little soft spot the demon seemed to have for him surely turned into something vicious. On that same thought arrives the possibility of untrained magic turning him mad, of destruction and death. All of that pales though when Stiles thinks of those first few dreams, of the way Void _looked_ at him, dark eyes potent with promises slipping from his lips, cool touch that burned on his skin – and Stiles shudders under the weight of his breathless yearning.

It’s wrong. It’s wrong and he can tell it’s going to change his life, irrevocably and irreversibly. That it may cost him more than he could imagine. But then again – Stiles was never one to back out from danger. From a challenge. From a reckless plan that could blow up in their faces. And for the first time ever, it’s _his_ decision. Only his. No one else’s. _His._

And Stiles _wants it_ , more than anything.

The process of making new paint is a blur Stiles barely remembers. Tries to pay attention to the herbs he’s mixing – cedar, ginger, dandelion, hibiscus, mandrake, licorice root, _foxglove_ and cinnamon, of fucking course – dimly aware how they reinforce what’s already radiating from the sigil and _more_ , a heat that he doesn’t dare name. He adds the mountain ash and spills the droplets of his blood, seven this time, almost as an afterthought, the prick of pain barely noticeable in the hollow ache threatening to drown him. Facing the mirror in his bathroom, he draws the sigil just on the left side of his sternum. Right above the heart. And looks, for a long moment, _just–_ Takes the sight in, the ink painted where the shadows curl, writhe, _demand._

He swallows, throat too dry and parched, but instead of leaning for some water, he locks his eyes on the reflection, on the painted rune, the size of half his palm, clenches his jaw and puts a hand over it, _pressing._

The burn _sears_ right through his skin, through the bone and muscle, a quick shot of delicious agony that makes him grab the sink so he won’t crumble, tears a gasp from his lips. Something snaps in place in his chest – swells in the hollows, in the abyss between his lungs, the darkness around his heart – pulses like a breathing, living being, first with confusion, but then– then it _seethes_ , white-hot and flaming, so encompassing Stiles is falling before he realizes.

He falls and falls, and _falls_ , through blankness, through worlds and dimensions, darkness all around, until he opens his eyes to _the_ clearing. Eerily quiet, eerily still, no moon, just a faint silver shine of stars and–

Void’s there, looking straight at him, _through_ him.

Furious. He’s furious.

Absolutely and completely _livid_.

„ _Void_...”

Stiles tries, but words get stuck in his throat the very second his voice leaves, hoarse and shaking, timid almost, and he hates it. Void cocks his head, eyes narrowed, and Stiles takes a step back only to get stopped by a tree, the rough bark biting through his shirt. Swallowing around the dryness, he knows he can’t look away, keeps as still as possible, the smallest shift with the potential to set off.

„And where have you been, _Stiles_?”

It’s low, so low, barely a murmur, hissing on his name, echoing in a thousand voices, from thousand sources, all around and yet slashing right into his mind. Void keeps himself contained, but it's so abundantly clear he’s on the verge of _bursting._

„I-”

„Where, Stiles, where have you been?” Void growls, a rumbling sound so, so much more powerful than anything any were’ could produce.

It goes right through him, embeds itself in Stiles’ chest and _rattles._ A memory resurfaces at the feeling – the school corridor, the Nogitsune advancing with rage potent enough to shake the building, his voice cutting like blades. But this– this is so, so much _worse_.

„With your new little girlfriend?” Void steps closer, slowly, deliberately, voice a hiss and a growl in one breath, cold, yet _burning._ „Playing with your new toy, Stiles? _Pretending_ , trying to distract yourself, avoiding it, because you can’t accept _the truth.”_ He spats, the dam cracking, rumbling with the force of white cold fury, and with every step closer Void’s voice gets sharper, cutting, rising in intensity until it’s _racking_ Stiles’ whole body. „I thought we had a deal, _Stiles. We._ Are you so afraid of the truth? Are you so happy with your little toy?” He’s closer, closer, so close. „Tell me. Are you _happy_ with _yourself_?! Tell _me_ , _Stiles-_ TELL ME!”

The scream pins him to the tree, tears a whimper out of his throat as hot breath hits his burning cheeks. Stiles has closed his eyes somewhere with Void’s last words, but as his shadow stills, just shy of pressing their bodies together, he chances a look.

Void’s face is drawn tight, lips pressed together in a hard line, dark eyes _blazing_ – with so much Stiles wouldn’t be able to decipher it even if he tried. Distantly he notes the Nogitsune is taller than him by a few inches, just enough to be noticeable. As Stiles plasters himself to the rough bark at his back, Void tilts his head closer, gaze narrowing, cold.

„Where _were_ you, Stiles?”

A whisper. Smooth and cool. So much worse.

„I– I just– I needed–” He stutters, shaking, and as he draws in a breath, meets the darkness of his shadow– the dam in him bursts too. „I needed to _do_ _something_ , alright?! People are dying, there’s a _dead pool_ , for fuck’s sake, and I didn’t– I didn’t know if I was on it, my magic, power, spark, whatever, was acting up, I couldn’t _think._ I needed _something_ –”

He’s cut off by fingers closing around his arm, right around the sigil. They’re cool on his skin, but the touch sears a hot shiver down his spine – he barely holds the whimper inside.

Void’s been looking him over while he rambled, his face smoothing with something akin to thoughtful care until he found the rune. Now his eyes are locked on it, long fingers around his forearm, thumb tracing the outline.

„Did you know I could feel it?” he says, throwing Stiles off. As their gazes meet again, his dark eyes shine with– with– „Like a wall cutting through the link. Not severing it, no, but preventing _any_ contact. But I could feel you, still.”

Stiles wonders where Void’s going with it. He can imagine that being trapped and cut off from maybe the only thing delivering some kind of reprieve could be, could be– devastating. An immense sense of guilt attacks him from nowhere – he’s been so selfish – but it’s cut off quickly, as he realizes–

„Yes, Stiles, I’ve heard you.” Void’s eyes and voice harden, the hold on his arm tightening just a bit. „I’ve heard you calling out, I’ve felt your fear and desperation, and I couldn’t do _anything_. Stiles. Anything.”

„I’m sorry,” it leaves without preamble, without thought, and Stiles never meant it more even though it seems a conditioned response by now.

Void’s answer is a hum, more thoughtful now, as his gaze traces Stiles’ face – slow, unhurried, intense in a way that makes him want to squirm. _Too much_ attention. _Too much_ – and still he wants _more._

„Your magic protected you,” he says, offhandedly, still searching for something. „So in that, at least, you did well.”

A hand comes up to Stiles' face, long fingers cupping his jaw, thumb hooking under his chin to lift his head.

„I’m glad you’re alive, little fox.” His eyes trace along his cheekbones, his mouth, go back to lock their gazes. „Don’t do that again.” A warning, an edge under the softness.

Stiles is startled by his own nervous chuckle.

„Yeah, right, not planning on that. I’d like to at least graduate.” His voice trembles, cracks a little, but Void doesn’t seem to mind.

„Are you done pretending?” he asks instead.

And it’s like a bucket of cold water dunked on his head. Reality crashing back through the dreamlike haze. Stiles swallows, can’t resist the urge to rub over the newest sigil, his _shadow’s_ rune – Void follows the move, hand slipping down from Stiles’ face.

„Yeah,” he manages, the awareness sizzling along his nerves, „yeah, I think I am.”

„Show me?” Void’s voice drips rich in sin as a long claw catches on the edge of Stiles’ shirt, not yet brushing the skin, but close enough to tingle, just above the waistband of his pants.

Stiles’ breath gets stuck somewhere in his lungs, gaze locked on the eyes that seem to hold the worst ( _the best_ ) promises. He nods, hand falling to his side, and that sinful lips quirk up.

The claw tears through the material like a knife through melting butter, easily, without resistance – the ripping, the barely-there brush of wickedly sharp tip ghosting over his skin crackles like electricity over his spine. Stiles is barely conscious enough not to arch into it, turning his head away when it becomes too much – the sound, the sight, the grin spreading on the demon’s lips.

„You’ve made a rune just for me, Stiles?” he coos, so, so pleased it permeates the air, sweet and heavy. „It’s beautiful.”

Cool fingers settle over the sigil, trace it, feather-light, _burning_ , but so much different from the burn of placing it– No, this burn makes _heat_ pool in Stiles’ stomach. Before he knows it, before he can even register the move, Void leans in and a puff of hot air covers the mark. Stiles clamps a hand over his mouth and shuts his eyes, head thudding back against the tree. Every nerve in his body is on fire, too sensitive.

„So, so beautiful, little fox, just for me.”

Wet, hot tongue licks at his skin, and Stiles buckles, moans into his hand, searching for something, anything to keep himself upright. He grabs onto a black jacket without knowing, pulls at the hard line of Void’s shoulders, brings him even closer as cool fingers circle around his hip bones, but there’s still _space_ between–

_„Perfect,”_ Void breathes out, _scalding_ on the moist skin, then catches it between his teeth and _tugs_. „Perfect for me, little fox, you’re perfect.”

Small nips and licks trail over his rune, over his burning skin, and Stiles is _shaking_ , only dimly aware of tears already forming. The words ring in his mind, pulse in sync with the writhing shadows in his chest that _aches_ in the kind of craving that’s terrifying in its intensity and so deeply rooted in his core it’s impossible to resist. And that needy, touch-attention–praise starved part he never really acknowledged but knew intimately bursts open in-between his ribs, all the while his brain is reeling, filled with images, thoughts, memories of blood on his hands, of hospital’s corridor, of _feeding_ , but also nights of learning, stories, ghost touches and waves of comfort that’s not his.

Too much, _too much_ , Stiles can’t take a breath, he’s hyperventilating. There are lips on his skin, fingers spreading over his sides–

„Wait,” he gasps, hand falling down to grab on messy black hair, pulling–„ _Stop_ , stop-”

And surprisingly, _shockingly_ , Void retreats. Loosens his hold – doesn’t take his hands away, but just lets them rest there – and straightens to look at Stiles, any and every trace of playfulness gone. His gaze is dark, attentive, searching.

But Stiles can’t look up at him, closes his eyes, fingers sliding down and grasping at the front of his shadow’s jacket. To pull in or shove away, doesn’t even know, just holds on, tries to catch his breath as his insides roll with panic.

„Breathe, little fox...”

The voice is gentle, so much gentler than anything he’s heard from it–

No, that’s not true, he’s heard it before – the situation similar, but so _different._ It helps anyway.

„It’s alright, Stiles. Just breathe...”

Cool fingers cup his cheek loosely, a touch to comfort, not force, and Stiles lets himself lean into it, lets the voice calm him down, lets himself just... let go. Stop fighting it. The want, the need, the comfort.

When he pulls through at last, breath still too shaky, heart still beating a bit too fast, he’s aware of the hand at his waist, resting loosely, of the fingers cupping his cheek, thumb lightly tracing his cheekbone. It’s all at once too much and not nearly enough. He can’t look up at him. He can’t.

„Do you want to sleep through the rest of the night?”

Again, so gentle, so _warm_. Stiles is dimly aware he was pulled in as he was standing in front of his mirror, but he couldn’t care less right now. So he nods without looking.

There’s a hum, fingers trailing from his jaw to his forehead, a brush of something like a kiss to his temple and–

_Sleep well, little fox, you’re safe now…_

He wakes up the next day, tucked under the covers in sweatpants, without a shirt, sun peeking through the window. It’s Sunday, thank God, and there’s no other body in his bed. A memory resurfaces, of his jacket, the dead pool, Malia’s real name, her absence – he should feel worse than he does, Stiles supposes, because even with the slight tinge of regret a wave of relief washes over him so strong and soothing it’s hard to care. His blood hums with sated magic, the sigil on his chest tingles, and Stiles reaches to trace it without hesitation. It’s a bit cooler than his skin and seems strangely oversensitive, the barest touch waking small shivers along his limbs.

Shaking his head, Stiles gets up, goes to the bathroom while stretching with a yawn. His supplies from the night before are still on the counter, brush, paint, the drawing, but he catches himself in the mirror and pauses.

The rune is different, it seems, in every way it can. Deep black, somehow even darker than ink, a sharp contrast to his pale skin, and, for just a second, Stiles leans forward to _look_ –

Heat crawls up his cheeks, stirring in his gut, there’s a pink bruise over the lines, he blinks–

And it’s gone. Just the rune, black as night and tingling lightly.

A gust of breath leaves his lips and he shakes his head again, pushes back the fathom memory of warm lips, of sharp teeth and wet tongue–

Shiver racks through his body, but Stiles clamps his jaw shut and takes a cold shower, refusing the coiling knot in his belly to distract him. Something aches, deep within his chest, but it’s not as cold and desperate as the previous day, more a quiet longing – subdued but present, tugging with a soothing reassurance. He’s alone in his head for now, but the blank space is gone, a familiar weight there that settles like it belongs – well, maybe it does. Now.

It should be disturbing. Terrifying, probably. Sickening, even. That he takes comfort from it, from _him,_ his shadow, the fox demon wearing his face, but–

For the first time in years, maybe ever, the loneliness that was always gnawing at his bones, trapping him inside his own head, is _gone_. And he’ll ponder the consequences, the implications, later, will probably obsess over them, give himself a panic attack in the process, but not now– Now he just doesn’t want to think about it. He’s alive. He can protect himself. He can save his friends. And he’s _not_ alone.

_Never again, little fox,_ the voice murmurs, slow and warm like a caress. _Never again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's truly one of my fave chapters from this fic - at least from those already written. I still did some rewrites before posting, but I think it only made it better, so I truly hope you enjoyed it! Definitely let me know!
> 
> Next chapter should be up in around two weeks - hopefully, I'll be done with my uni stuff then and will be able to get back to writing this fic ;p My wrists are getting steadily better too, so that's exciting! And I may start to post more about the fic (or my other Voiles ideas) over on my tumblr, so head over there if you'd like that - here's the link \- ask box is open also, so you could always send me one, too. I crave interaction with my fellow Voiles shippers, so don't hesitate there ;p 
> 
> All the love, hope y'all are safe and well ❤


	6. secrets

Not much later the same day Stiles finds himself leaned over another sigil, calmer and more at ease than ever before – maybe aside from the first time – while searching for the design. The dead pool, the day before, all the possible threats still run in the back of his mind, but it’s those exact things that make him even more focused. His near-death experience started up anew series of doubts he put off a little too long – which he had only himself to blame for, pushing it away and then cutting himself off – so the need to know, to act is almost unbearable. And when he asks about the possibility of being found out, Void’s presence brushes along his side, cool and soothing.

_Maybe not this soon, but– yes. It's a possibility. Your magic presence will grow, soon someone more attuned will be able to read your aura._

Whatever ire the demon held since their last encounter he either hid very well or entirely dismissed – which Stiles supposes both worked. He couldn’t really feel anything off, the fox seemed fairly calm if a bit more quiet than usual. More in presence than just words. And that, in turn, made for a realization that he's more aware of Void now, attuned to him – a ring of connection embedded inside his chest. But that thought had to be filed away for further investigation later, Stiles’ mind already overrun with everything else.

_Is the protection sigil not enough?_ He asks, looking over the circle-shaped rune on his forearm.

Void’s voice hums lightly, a tingling echo of sensation somewhere under his sternum.

_While it is very well done and quite powerful too – no, it’s not. You need to hide your magic’s presence._

With quite a bit of embarrassment Stiles finds himself preening under the subtle praise, his heart skipping a few beats before he can reign it all in. A surprising kind of amusement soothes over the edges of shame yet only makes the burn on his face worse.

_Right, so a cloaking sigil? Like it should make me feel like a human? Or... a training emissary, I guess?_

There’s a distant impression of an indignant huff, but before he could wonder about it, Void’s voice sounds again – an undercurrent of irritation, or frustration, in the smooth, low tones.

_That’s the idea, yes. Preferably as a human, emissaries don’t have a specific presence, they_ are _human, just using magic in the basest ways possible._

If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d think it was dismissive, but now– Now he's more aware than he was before, there's a distinct kind of almost perfectly hidden disdain on one word specifically–

_You’re irritated._ Cold kind of pinpricks nick at his skin, and yeah, yup, he was right. _Why? Are you against me becoming one?_

_Sparks aren’t meant for being emissaries, they are beyond that. No pack deserves that kind of power. And no pack deserves_ you _, little fox._

Air gets caught in his lungs, Void’s last words trailing down his spine. It shouldn’t feel that good, shouldn’t _make_ him feel that way. Shifting and licking at his lips, he tries to ignore the tone of those words – a mix of disdain, fierce kind of confidence and a tender rasp of a nickname.

_We’ll see about that,_ he thinks, reaching for his books, practically seeing the eye-roll in his mind. _So, cloaking._

And that is how he gets into a few hours of drawing designs, dismissing and crumbling ones that didn’t feel right, then trying to expand on those that did. Void’s steady presence lurking somewhere in the shadows – a nudge here and there, idle conversation as he drew the lines – helping to fall into rhythm, more than he’d be ready to admit, let the thrum in his veins guide him. The way it quieted Stiles’ brain was quickly becoming his favorite thing ever and the satisfaction of a finished sigil, simmering with potential power, was an added bonus.

_Looks well, little fox. How does it feel?_

Stiles is perfectly aware Void probably already knows, but it’s still nice to be asked.

_Right,_ he thinks as he looks at the rune.

The lines are rougher than in the previous ones, broad strokes and jagged edges, the whole symbol looking a little like a diamond-shaped eye without the pupil, a branch-like line protruding from every side of the geometric design, almost like the ends of a cross. The magic it gives off seems muted or rather exudes that ability. Stiles can’t really describe how it feels, but it really is _right_. For the paint he just goes straight for the jar with leftover from his first, the contents secured from drying out with both oils and simple runes drawn on the screw, straight from one of the books littering his desk. Helpful for the little things.

_You could skip that part, you know_.

It’s possible, Stiles thinks. He can picture it in his mind, the process, especially considering the spot he wants for it, that feels, somehow again, just right. But his wondering gets stopped by a subtle tug at his awareness, a presence on the outskirts of his wards – the distinct impression of death, lilies and mourning. Stiles is at his door practically the second Lydia knocks and keeps himself from answering right away so it doesn’t look too suspicious. There’s an echo of exasperation – maybe even tinged with irritation – in the corners of his consciousness, but he ignores it in favor of opening up.

„Hi,” he says, a bit awkward, but a lot happened – which makes him immediately concerned, even if Lydia looks just tired. „Something wrong?”

„Hey, no, nothing, not yet, anyway...” She trails off, head shaking with a distant kind of gaze, before refocusing on him. „Just wanted to check on you.”

Light, fuzzy warmth wraps around Stiles, the gratitude for having someone like Lydia for a friend, even when he hears the undertones in her voice as clearly as the day. After yesterday, _well_ , he supposes no one really wanted to be completely alone. They were in this together, after all.

„You wanna come in?”

Opening wider as he talks, Stiles moves to let her inside and Lydia follows easily. There’s a deep kind of weariness exuding from her, its taste tangy, sour, but she holds herself up like the queen she is. So Stiles plays the host, brews a pot of coffee, serves it just as she likes and they talk idly, about everything and anything, but he can feel the questions coming from a mile away. He doesn’t mind, though, and the quiet presence in his head, the knot of connection in the dark between his ribs, is still a soothing calm, just a bit retreated at the edges, like maybe it’s giving Stiles more privacy. Or an illusion of.

When Lydia finally asks Stiles is as relaxed as he could be, considering the circumstances.

„Heard you’ve been practicing more lately,” she says, gaze both sharp and curious, but not unkind. „Any progress?”

„Yeah. The wards around the house are working great, keep unwanted guests away.” He grins, sipping on his coffee, only half-consciously keeping it hot with the palm of his right hand. It’s a neat trick and he likes taking advantage of it – can already feel the amusement in his chest rise.

Lydia blinks, her lips pursed together, even though her gaze twinkles a little.

„You knew the second I came here, didn’t you?”

„Yup.” His grin stretches further and turns into a chuckle as she rolls her eyes.

„Were you working on something right now?”

„I was, actually, want to see?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself and realizes too late what he’d done. _Shit._

„Sure,” her replay is almost enthusiastic, but of course she notices his barely covered surge of panic. Her brows furrow. „If you’re _sure_ , Stiles... It’s okay, I won’t pry.” Her voice lowers soothingly and Lydia reaches out to cover his palm with her small hand – it almost does the trick.

Theoretically, it’s still druid’s and even emissaries' territory, so he’s in the clear, but with Lydia – this girl always had a talent to draw every little thing out of him, no matter the tactic, and that– that could be dangerous. So he tried to search through his mounting panic, the eagerness to share it with someone, for the distinct feeling of the connection that went too eerily quiet in the meantime – he barely holds back his relief when it reaches back.

_It’s your secret to tell, little fox. Tell your friend if you want,_ the voice sounds so familiar by now it's reassuring just by itself. Then, almost as if with hesitance– _Don’t worry, I’ll be here the whole time._

And maybe it shouldn’t, but nothing changes the way it soothes something deep inside Stiles that refuses to be comforted by anything else. So he nods, panic averted and eagerness back, as he meets Lydia’s gaze again.

„C’mon, it’s in my room.”

His desk is a chaotic mess – stacks of books on the left, some open, some closed with notes sticking out, pencils, pens and loose papers all over, with just enough space cleared in the middle to work on whatever he needed, a small lamp hovering over the back edge. Only previous designs got special treatment, put away in a folder inside the drawer, but the newest one sits proudly in the center, the eye blinking at them as Lydia lifts the sheet.

„Pretty, if a little brute. Is it a rune? For what?” her tone is inquisitive, like she found something to tear apart, a math problem to peer over and quite frankly _destroy_ , and it makes him equal parts excited and dreading the outcome.

„Yes, a rune. And it’s for me.”

It’s not an answer to her question, but she should have been more specific, so he took advantage – and the way she turns right back at him is an indication enough she sees right through it.

„If it’s for you, then what is its purpose?” Her eyes narrow, the edge of worry still too familiar under the calm guise.

And Stiles needs to halt, stop, _think._ Because, deep down, he wants her to know, he wants _someone_ to know, and who better than Lydia Martin? She’s wicked smart, sharp, nothing short of brilliant, wouldn't ever put them at risk, but...

_Your decision, Stiles,_ the voice murmurs, a quiet comfort desperately needed, _and you don’t have to, necessarily, tell the whole truth. Perhaps a small part wouldn’t do much damage. Trust your instincts._

The low, soothing murmur is almost enough to vanish away the knots of nerves in his stomach – and as he follows the suggestion, searching for the thrum in his veins, the hum inside his very soul, his magic answers, quiet, content, maybe even curious. So he takes a breath, releases it, lets Lydia see his internal conflict resolving – because she will understand, she’s great like that – and decides.

„It’s for cloaking,” he admits, seeing perfectly manicured brows raise slightly. „I may or may not have a little more magic than the next person.”

„Let me guess, it’s dangerous for you if anyone knows.”

„Yeah. There are... others that may want it out,” he gulps, swallows through a suddenly dry throat, he should’ve taken the coffee with himself upstairs, „or for themselves. So I need the rune. Maybe it’s not needed _yet_ , but with everything that’s happening...”

Lydia watches him, little glitters of emotions passing through her eyes, but remains calm, taking in all the little things he’s not saying as well as those he is. They’re both too smart for their own good, Stiles supposes, but maybe getting through it together would be easier. It takes shockingly little time for her to nod, decisively, and shift as if she’s ready to take on an army. A queen, through and through.

„Alright, and how would you put it on? Does it have to be tattooed or something? Wait–” Eyebrows furrowing, she looks him up and down, searching, then– „You already have some, don’t you?”

And Stiles can’t help the grin as his heartbeat quickens.

„Sure do. I paint them on, do a little magic,” he waggles his fingers for effect, „and puff! Done.”

Lydia’s eyes narrow even more, lips pursed like she doesn’t quite know if he’s to be trusted, but after a second of evaluation she caves in. With a long-suffering sigh. Which– fair enough.

„Where do you put this on? I suppose you’ve been wearing all the plaids and hoodies nonstop to hide one, so.” Her look is nothing short of expectant.

There is the part about locker rooms, but he’s never attracted a lot of attention so he got away with just calling it a simple tattoo – he’ll get more stares the more runes he’ll paint, for sure, but that will also help in not needing to explain every single one.

Still, a light blush creeps onto his neck, _busted_ , but at the same time, if they’re already here and talking–

„On my shoulder. Here.” He turns his left side to her, leans a little and points to his shoulder-blade, close to the curve of his shoulder. „A little hard to paint it here by myself, but feels right, y’know.”

She looks at him critically, half exasperation like he’s a moron and half consideration he’s too late to understand.

„Alright. I’ll do it. Where’s the paint?”

Stiles blinks, opens his mouth, clamps it shut and feels his brain promptly close down. _What_? Lydia puts her hands on her hips, looking around as if she’ll find it sitting on a shelf – close, but _no_ – like it’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

„Well?” she prompts after a second, bringing him back to the present.

„You sure? I could still-”

„Don’t be stupid, just give me the paint. At least I’ll make it look good.”

He blinks yet again, unsure, but searching his gut for an answer brings nothing but the same kind of humming magic, so what the hell. He goes for the paint abandoned beside all the other jars and brings it back, setting up on the desk with other supplies.

„Aim for the first try. A mess up shouldn’t affect it, but it’s better that way.” Talking through the motions, Stiles searches even deeper into himself, to the abyss inside his ribs, but the connection still seems content enough, a quiet observing presence almost unnoticeable – he takes comfort from it nonetheless.

Lydia takes the jar in her hands, eyes scrutinizing, as Stiles pulls off his hoodie along with his shirt and settles backward on the desk chair, arms draping over the backrest.

„Do I want to know what’s inside?”

He huffs out a laugh, looking back at her over his shoulder.

„Just some herbs, oils...” he trails off, shrugs. „My blood.”

„Your _blood_?”

„Yeah, just a few drops. Three, to be exact. Ah, and mountain ash, too, surprisingly good for runes, who would’ve guessed, right?” He waves his hand dismissively, grinning back at her bemused expression. For her credit, she’s taking it in stride.

With a quiet sigh, she uncaps the jar, pours some of the liquid in the small container ready on the desk, then takes it in one hand, brush in her right, design laying on the desk– Nudges him with an elbow, gesturing to the paper.

„Hold it up for me. I need to see it.”

„Ugh, sure, here.”

Unconsciously, holding it up with his right hand over the left shoulder, his left forearm draped over the backrest, he gives her a good view of the first rune. Hazel eyes flit over it before a slightly cool liquid begins to spread on his skin in long, practiced strokes. It feels... strangely nice. To share it with someone. Weird – but nice. Even if some dark, deep parts of himself – hidden away behind his ribs, lurking in the corners of his mind – wish for another, for–

„Care to tell me about the other one?”

Lydia’s voice cuts through his wandering thoughts, his heart skipping a beat at where it almost went as well as what she’s possibly meaning.

„The rune on your forearm?”

His gaze falls, finds the circular rune, and he exhales a breath without conscious input from his brain. Ah, _dammit_. He knew she’d get too much out of him and yet here he is. Might as well.

„It’s for protection. Any kind, really, but I guess a... mental shield is one of them. Y’know, after what happened, after the–” His voice cuts off, not able to give the name, as the abyss pulses around his pounding heart. But Lydia gets it, as she always does, even if not the whole picture. „Anyway, it’s strong and works, so… I guess that’s good.” He tries to shrug it off, though it won’t work on Lydia.

The feather-light touch of a brush stops, put away for a hand on his other shoulder, squeezing lightly.

„So yesterday...” she trails off, the meaning obvious with how heavy with emotion her voice gets even when it’s almost a whisper.

„Yeah.”

It still makes him swallow down nervously, the memory clear in his head, the image burned under his eyelids. There’s a weight pulling at his lungs, something that should probably feel like guilt, but… a cold numbness settled over it and the relief is still too fresh. Coupled with the way his magic surged in the moment, powerful and intoxicating, with the knowledge the Chemist was the one responsible for his friends almost dying, with most probably countless other victims before them. Well, Stiles finds it hard to care that the killer is dead. But he probably _should_ care–

His hands tighten into fists without his conscious input, which Lydia notices right away.

„Stiles–” her voice rips him out of his thoughts and he looks back over his shoulder, sees her serious, sympathetic expression. „Don’t beat yourself over it–”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her he isn’t, not exactly.

„–You protected yourself. And he won’t kill anyone again.”

It’s those words that make him wonder–

„Did you know he was going to die?” Stiles remembers he saw her at school yesterday, but it was so hectic and his mind was so overrun he didn’t even think about that until now – Lydia must’ve felt something.

Her lips thin into a line, but her eyes seem distant.

„I knew _someone_ was going to die,” she admits, voice hollow – then she blinks and her whole posture goes back to the Lydia he knows, with back straight and sharp eyes. „I rather him than you. I _won’t_ scream for you _._ Or any of our friends. So don’t dare beat yourself over it.” She squeezes his shoulder once more, her gaze softening. „Talk to me, alright? You’re not alone in this.”

And Stiles can’t help but smile a little – a quivering, small thing – because her words do make that cold, heavy feeling just that bit lighter.

„Alright, I’ll– I’ll remember.” He reaches up to squeezes her hand back, short and light. „Thanks, Lyds.”

And leaving it off with just a slight nod, because she’s amazing like that, Lydia continues on the design. Stiles can feel her working on the outside branches when she speaks up again.

„Do you have more? Runes?”

White heat spikes through his body as he grabs onto the backrest to stop himself from reaching for the tingling sensation on his left pec – it’s almost like it’s teasing him, like _he_ is teasing _Stiles,_ and that– that-

„Yeah,” he clears his throat, careful not to jerk and mess up the design, „this one’s third.”

Lydia takes it in stride, acknowledges the words and the unsaid, finishing the rune with a last stripe.

„Then I’m honored,” she says, takes the brush away, pats him on the upper arm. „Done.”

Before he can ask, there’s the telltale sound of a picture being taken and a phone screen shoved in front of him. Stiles blinks, looks over the perfectly drawn rune, the size of his palms-

„Lydia, it’s _perfect_.”

„I know.” She smiles as she takes the phone back and he shares the grin, looking over his shoulder. „What now?”

„Wait for the paint to dry, magic it in, wipe off the excess and done. Nothing too exciting, to be honest.”

Her nod is the only response as she settles comfortably on the bed, an already thoughtful expression on her face. But before she can ask the questions already building, he feels the paint drying, drawing his skin in, and hums low in his throat, the thrum in his blood already intensified, little tingles running along his fingertips. Lydia looks back to him as he places his hand over it, takes a long breath, and presses with intent.

The burn’s familiar, barely making him tense up anymore, the rune itching itself into the skin, working through to the inside. It has its own very distinct feeling as it sets in, falling over him with an impression of a soft blanket, a light cloak, different kind of protection. When he takes his hand back few seconds later, his blood sings with sated, content magic that’s already wanting more, but he ignores it as best as he can, standing up and going right into the bathroom to wash off the excess paint with a washcloth, clean off the brush and container, before getting back to his room. Without a shirt. Lydia’s sharp gaze clocks on the rune on his chest the second he shows back up – and promptly freezes in the doorway, supplies cradled in one hand.

Cold dread settles over his shoulders, seeps down like rain through clothes, the connection so quiet it stocks up the rising panic.

„It’s...”

Too personal. Too terrifying. Too _close_.

Lydia's eyes are sharp when she focuses on him, a calculating, careful kind of look in them. The tense few seconds that follow seem to stretch into eternity, the air so thick with uneasiness Stiles swears he could hang a knife in it. Then something clicks, almost audibly, and Lydia's whole posture deflates.

„What are you so afraid of?”

„ _What_ –” Stiles startles, blinking rapidly in his shock. It's– it's not– „What do you mean?” He hates how weak his voice sounds, hates how deathly hollow his chest feels.

Lydia stands up, takes a few slow, cautious steps toward him, but her eyes are only full of worry.

„You've been hiding this one, evading all questions and now you look like a deer caught in headlights and I'm the truck trying to kill you–”

No, _no_ , that's not–

She steps even closer, enough to reach out for him, hazel eyes shining.

„Why won't you talk to me?”

„It's not that,” he says immediately, almost cutting Lydia off. „It's just–”

How does he even begin? When it's so fresh and new and Stiles himself doesn't yet fully understand what he did, what it _means_.

He licks his lips, looks away, trying to gather his thoughts – only realizes he reached up to trace the lines of his shadow's rune as little thrills wake gooseflesh over his skin.

There's just no way he'd be able to talk about that, not now, not yet.

„I just can't.” He looks back to Lydia, pleading with just his eyes to _please_ , please, understand. „It's– it's too close, too new, I–”

Shaking his head, Stiles takes a breath to calm himself, but Lydia silences anything he wanted to add by taking his hands, delicately cradling them in her own.

„I get it,” she says, the tiny, tight smile on her lips full of unspoken emotion. „Just… will you tell me, when you're ready?”

„Yeah, _yes_ , I will, Lyds, I– I will _._ ”

He wants to, God, he truly wants to, but it feels so impossible now – to formulate what's raging the storm in-between his ribs.

„Okey,” she nods, squeezing his hands, before her smile quirks in the corner. „I do hope you know what you're doing.”

And Stiles can't help the snort, recognizing everything that's packed into this short sentence and Lydia's gaze.

„Pfft, _please_ , Lyds, do you even know me? _Of course_ , I do.”

They both know his arrogant confidence is fully fake, but it does make them share a chuckle. Lydia looks at him with both wariness and belief – and Stiles' heart pounds heavily, because even if it was his choice, _his_ and only his, the one he _wanted_ , he's also pretty sure he's not prepared to face the consequences. Even the mere thought makes him a little breathless.

„Alright then,” her voice is as gentle as her hazel eyes when she locks their gazes, „I'll be waiting for that talk.” She winks, then squeezes his hands one last time, helping to ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

A small, understanding smile plays in the corner of her lips and Stiles lets it soothe him, if only a little. So he nods, grateful, puts away the container, the brush, then pulls his shirt and hoodie on, before he grabs the jar with what’s left of the paint – for one or maybe two more runes – and gets to stash it back too–

„What do the symbols mean?”

„Huh?

„On the cap.” Lydia gestures to the jar in his hands.

„Oh, these? Just so the paint doesn’t dry out. It’d suck to make a new one every time, so – little conveniences.” A small smile spreads his lips this time, a genuine one, but he’d never expect what she asks next. Though he should have.

„Could you put it on my mascara?”

Startled laugh breaks free of his chest, the responding smile on Lydia’s face practically mischievous.

„Sure. I can try.”

And so he does. It works, too.

An hour later they’re debating the possibility of preserving food with runes when their phones chime at the same time. It’s from Scott. Apparently, he has a plan. That’s no good. His gaze flicks up from the screen only to meet Lydia’s equally dubious one. But they get up and leave anyway, both to their own little mission – Stiles to keep an eye on Scott, Lydia to find out more about her grandmother.

There’s a knot of tension building under his ribs, buzzing with nerves, and the magic thrums in his veins along his fluttering pulse. The runes will keep him safe, for now, but he’ll need more – and soon. A light wave of cool comfort, the brush of presence to his side, smoothes over the ragged edges of his worry and Stiles exhales a long breath. They’re going to get through this. Stiles will see to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming back to writing after two months of only being able to think about this story is so hard, guys. I'd love to get back to that flow I had in March/April before my wrists gave up on me, but for now it's slow progress. But! I'm so happy I can write again and now I'm trying to hype myself back into this fic. That's why I can't thank you enough for all those lovely comments, kudos and bookmarks, you have no idea how much they mean and how they pull me back, just seeing all the love for this ship and all, thank you yet again ❤❤❤
> 
> Next up - the rest of S4, cause I'm not too much into that season, and, oh, maybe some naughty? *wink wink* Would you like that? ^^ 
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter! As always you can find me over on tumblr - link \- I'm slowly getting into the habit of posting more about my fics, so if you'd like that, definitely find me there! 
> 
> All the love ❤


	7. a trickster's hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: I've cleaned up and added some tags, so there shouldn't be any major changes to them in the future besides adding a few as the story goes. As always - if you want me to tag something or ask about possible triggers/squicks, definitely let me know, here in the comments or over on my tumblr!
> 
> Also, one thing I noticed but always forget to mention - I know I messed up the timeline in-between S3 and S4, apparently there was only a month between them and I wrote in a whole summer, so... whops! I'm kinda too far into the story to rewrite it now, so I'm sorry for that and hope you can enjoy despite my misstep there ;p 
> 
> And that's all, now to the chapter! *evil author laugh* If you've read the added tags, then - well - you're probably aware there's some naughty in here ;> Personally, I love it, but I'm also very much nervous about posting it... So I do hope you enjoy this chapter! I tamed it down a bit from the original draft, but still changed the tags from mild to explicit, just to be sure. And if you wish to avoid that part, It's at the very end, so you can just skip the rest of the chapter from the point of "Stiles can’t be sure where exactly he is".

Stiles hates it. He really does. It’s honestly stupid that he has to wait in the hospital room for some scan he doesn’t need. Any damage done is long healed, the magic’s almost crackling in his blood, he’s _fine._ Well, at least _physically_ he’s fine.

That moment in Eichen, tied to the beams, outsmarted by that fucking cockroach – the anger flaring along his nerves was akin to a forest fire, burning through everything and anything it could as Stiles struggled, tried to control the outburst of power warring with his very will. In that moment – the lightest of tremors running through the floor, to the beam, to his fingertips – he was somehow sure he’d level the building down if he let it out. So instead of rescuing them he was reduced to screams and trashing against restraints that shouldn’t hold him, overcome with the startling _hunger_ to hurt Brunski, to make him writhe and cry and beg in pain, to fucking _destroy him_ , and the thought built up with every second he couldn’t _do anything_ least he lays the whole place to ruin. Then Parrish showed up and the little bit of agony from the fucking excuse of a human was like a gut punch, bitter-sweet on his tongue, too small, too easy, he didn’t deserve to go out so quickly, Stiles would teach him a lesson–

But would he? _Would he_ , really? Back then... _Yes_. And he didn’t know what to do with that information.

There, in that basement, the tug in his chest turned into a whole other war– No, not war, a _pull,_ consistent, raising, egging him on. But it went both ways, it wasn’t just the darkness suffocating his heart or the quiet, so eerily quiet presence in the back of his mind, there was _something_ more to Stiles he didn’t understand. And it was far from the first time he felt it. Even as Meredith showed up – the conflict, the pain hanging in the air, the absolute chaos emanating from around them – it simmered along Stiles skin like a caress, little sparks of power, seeping into him with sweet, sweet recognition. Void hasn’t said anything the whole time but his quiet, calm essence lingered, a heavy weight in Stiles’ mind. Both comforting and inducing terrifying kinds of questions and doubts.

Now, sitting in the room, the hospital alive around him, he can still feel the echoes. The pain exuding from patients, embedded in the very walls of the building, the chaos happening somewhere on the low levels – a road accident, probably – and Stiles is so far past the point of panic he’s just accepting it, all too easily.

 _What’s happening to me?_ he asks, so, so tired, as if something chewed him through and spit back out. The rune on his chest tingles.

_You have your suspicions, little fox. Follow them._

Little fox, the demon calls him. It’s shudder-inducing even inside his head, but now gains on a whole new meaning.

 _When we split,_ he starts, pressing the hills of his palms to his eyes, trying to focus, _my spark ignited then, but something... Something else happened too, didn’t it? There’s the connection, but,_ he pauses, shudders with a breath, chases away all the wisps of pain he feels reaching out for him, _am I feeling it because of that? Because we’re connected? Are you feeding through– through me? Or am I–_

He can’t finish the thought. The panic that felt out of reach just seconds earlier starts to crawl along his lungs, freezing cold, and it’s the last thing Stiles needs right now. So when a phantom touch covers his back, slips around his waist, it’s so hard _not_ to lean into it, let the brush of a ghost chase away his fears.

 _When we split, Stiles, it wasn’t just you or me,_ Void starts, his tone calm, level, dare he say even gentle, _it was both of us, you igniting and me guiding it along. If you had your power longer back then, you would possibly be able to pull it off yourself, but as it was, the split was a combined effort. That’s why when it happened we both had our own bodies and–_

_A connection._

_Yes. But it’s more than that. You know it already._

The touch lingers, heavier, vaguely cool and warm at the same time as it brushes along Stiles’ cheekbone and he can’t help himself, eyes closing to just enjoy, for once.

_That doesn’t really answer my question. How am I feeling all of this?_

Void hums, the echoing sound rippling lightly along Stiles’ spine, a hot puff of air somewhere under his ear, under a mark left months ago.

 _Playing stupid doesn’t suit you, darling,_ the demon chides, but there’s no bite in his words. _As you know, this kind of magic leaves a trace, it’s unavoidable, too powerful not to. So, yes, there’s a connection between us now, one I’m quite happy with, and one that also yes, lets me feed through you, but not by much. It’s more like a taste than a meal._

The words send a small shiver along Stiles’ body, though he doesn’t know why. The implications, so many, ring through his mind, but Void’s still talking, so he pushes them back.

_But I’m not the one initiating it. I’m only benefiting by chance._

_What are you saying?_

_You know already._ The presence shifts, builds up, somehow more solid against him, tighter, something like nuzzling into his neck. _Don’t be afraid, little one, it’s nothing to be afraid of._

Soothing wave of comfort, slips along the raising panic yet again and Stiles lets out a breath, an almost gasp, the realization slowly sinking in, seeping into his muscle, his bones, his very soul. The connection pulses, strengthens, reaches out for him like the phantom embrace that seems to encompass him whole – Stiles doesn’t dare to look.

„Part-Nogitsune,” he whispers, shuddering with the words. He suspected, for days now, ever since the virus at school, but still– „What does it mean, exactly?”

 _As you already know, you can feel like I do, you can feed as I do,_ Void explains, not a hitch of unsteadiness in his smooth voice, _some of your senses may get stronger, too._ _Everything else… I can’t honestly tell for sure, but you’re pretty much capable of anything with your magic, when you’ll be able to truly wield it._

That calms him, in a way – it doesn’t sound so bad. The feeding part still makes him a little nauseous, the memory of Void taking pain from his best friend one that’s burned under his eyelids, never really getting better, but Stiles is anything if not resourceful, he could use it.

_But I’m not really a Nogitsune? Or just a Kitsune, I guess?_

_No, you won’t even feel like one, Kitsunes are spirits and you are a Spark, it’s quite a wonder your magic worked with mine so well. Spark’s power doesn’t like competition._

Huh, that’s unexpected. But also comforting, in a strange way. And implies even more than Void’s previous words – there’s so much new information from this simple talk that Stiles would need to ponder over by himself – it almost makes his head hurt. The thought is meet with a chuckle, a soft, deep sound echoing in his chest with a barely-there warmth. Trying to ignore the sensation, Stiles gets distracted by the thing he tried to push away the whole time – the dull ache emanating from all around him, the pain almost embedded in the walls. He’s about to reject the tendrils reaching out for him when the touch around him loosens, the presence retreating and–

Oh, right. Stiles doesn’t need it, but he can feel it and if he can feel it – focusing on the trail connecting him to Void, he tries to look, tries to get the confirmation of what he already suspects. Void doesn’t let him at first, wary and slightly confused all at once, but just as Stiles is ready to give up, the bond flares, opens just enough to–

It almost makes him recoil.

The hunger, the chasm of deep, deep, dark need that’s insatiable and growing and gnawing and unlike any mortal hunger Stiles ever experienced. Void closes it off almost immediately, his sole attention like a blade on the inside of Stiles’ skull. He wanted to know and yet... _No_ , it will haunt him now, and he may have just given the demon another weapon against him, but he always preferred to know, to make his own decision, so he does that now too.

Licking his lips, mouth dry from the nervous knot that tied itself around his throat, Stiles lets go of his shields – lets the tendrils of pain, of ache, of hurt and distress reach for him, seep into his skin, his muscles, his bone, his very _core_. Then he stretches the connection open.

It shouldn’t feel like that. All that suffering flaring heat through his flesh, an intoxicating thrill on the inside of his skin and through the bond embedded in his chest – it pulses and throbs and Stiles shudders at the demon’s clear delight. Some kind of shiver, of delicious pleasure runs in-between and sparks like electricity over his rune. The sensations pass quickly as he absorbs all he could, but it leaves an indescribable itch behind, an echo of what could be. Stiles needs to take a long breath to somehow calm himself.

 _I must say, I wasn’t expecting you to do that_ , Void says – so, so pleased. _Felt good, didn’t it?_

Stiles barely stops the coming shudder, clenching his jaw in effort to ignore it.

 _Better be thankful I’m helping you out_ , he bites back, aware he won’t ever fool the demon and yet still trying.

Void chuckles, his presence brushing cold over his back and hot over his neck, raises gooseflesh on Stiles’ skin.

 _Oh, I’m very thankful, little fox._ The cold touch travels, down his sides, his waist– _I could show you how much, y’know. I’m sure you’d–_

He cuts it in half, just as Stiles was trying to keep himself from shivering, and Stiles is about ready to ask exactly _what_ he was saying when the door to the room opens. The phantom touch vanishes, leaves only little tingles along his spine, and Stiles lets out a heavy breath.

Melissa slides inside, making Stiles’ eyes narrow in suspicion. Then Malia steps in after her and they’re left alone, and Stiles is not sure how to feel. He likes Malia, he really does, yet somewhere in the last days something shifted inside him and he doesn’t know what he should do. So they talk, he tries to explain, at least make her see and get a friend back–

Then she kisses him.

It should’ve been obvious, he thinks, that she’d do it. Or try to. He doesn’t really know what he’d do if he noticed in time, but as she presses close, warm, familiar, it doesn’t _feel right_. Not anymore, never really did.

There’s an emptiness in his chest, cold and dark, almost as painful as when he put the first rune on himself. And Stiles realizes, immediately, what it means – this withdrawal, this cloaking, hiding from him. Malia’s lips are barely a press against his mouth as he pushes back – doesn’t give it enough time to develop into anything – with the instinctual need to get away, to _not_ let it escalate, breaking the contact as the tug in his chest tenses and snaps like a bowstring. He’s still holding onto her arms, but leaning back enough so she gets the message, frowning up at him.

„Uh, I’m–” he swallows nervously, the quiet darkness putting him on edge, „I’m sorry, it’s just–”

There’s no words, his mind has gone both blank and running frantically in search of anything, _any sign_ , it’s like being torn, ripped in both ways, he can’t–

„You’ve changed your mind,” she says, blunt as always, and Stiles can only gape, mouth working without words coming out. Her brows are still furrowed, there’s something like disappointment in her eyes, but she shrugs. „I get it. I’m not mad.”

„I still want to be your friend,” he hurries, hand squeezing a little at Malia’s shoulder, he _means it_. „I really do. Just–”

„No sex, I know, I get it.” She nods, decisively, like it’s perfectly normal. Then falters a little. „And no kisses, I guess.”

Stiles would laugh, if the emptiness between his ribs didn’t hurt so much, so he forces a smile that looks better than he feels.

„On the cheeks are good, friends do that. Forehead too, sometimes,” he says, gently, because she’s still learning and he needs to remember that. This will be good for her. „But yes, not the other kisses. Sorry.”

Malia shrugs again, like she really doesn’t care, and he could hug her right now. So he does. And it feels right, nice, perfectly friendly as they sway a little and laugh, because it’s funny too. The door slips open few seconds later – Stiles has to hold back probably the biggest eye roll of his life – but it gets him the opportunity to escape, so he takes it.

The presence slithers back into the emptiness, the dark corners of his soul, like it belongs right there. The way it makes him exhale in relief may mean just as much.

 _What was that?_ he asks, because he can’t help himself. And because it did hurt, even if he won’t admit it.

_Didn’t appreciate the privacy with your little girlfriend, Stiles?_

The voice is perfectly even, cold, flat almost, but there’s an edge lurking under that, a sneer perfectly visible in his mind as it rolls over his name. It wracks a shiver down his spine, sharp like blades, both exhilarating and terrifying.

 _Not a girlfriend,_ he thinks, ignores all the implications mounting up in his brain, licks over his bottom lip in strange kind of anticipation. _Not anymore._

Quiet, barely-there hum resonates in his head, around his rib-cage, the abyss pulsing in tandem with his blood. Void doesn’t answer, but there’s a lot rumbling behind the facade, a raging storm – he can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue – so Stiles lets it be. Later, as he lays in bed that night, he’s content and calm in a way he wasn’t for a long time, doesn’t even notice the phantom touch pressing around him – just falls into sleep with his heart beating a steady rhythm.

✦✧✦✧

Few days later Stiles looks over the fourth rune adorning his body. It’s practically parallel to the cloaking one, under his left collarbone, same size, even the design similar – a diamond-shaped eye, just this time with a pupil, sharp and vigilant, and instead of the cross under it there’s a circle of thorny roots peeking over every edge of the straight lines, hidden partly under the corners. Lydia just left after painting it for him, just as tired as all of them, even though she was trapped in Beacon Hills while they were in Mexico dealing with Kate, Peter and all of that mess. Still, she was kept here by a Berserker, with Mason, and that–

A long sigh leaves his lips as he leans on the sink for support.

So much shit happened. He barely had time to wrap his head around his own issues and even though it seems that, for now, the supernatural in Beacon Hills quieted down, that there’s no new crisis on the horizon, Stiles feels stretched too thin, torn apart, just so _fucking tired_. Kate got away, Peter turned out to be the villain, when even Stiles started to reconsider (he still doesn’t understand how it’s even possible Peter aligned himself with her, that doesn’t make any sense), Derek left and they had to get Mason in the know. Granted, the kid already suspected a lot, too curious and intelligent and loyal to his best friend...

_Seems he’s a mini you, little fox._

The voice sounds amused, teasing almost, and even if Stiles can’t gather the energy to smile, it does make something in him unravel, ease out. Mason was a good kid, he’d help Liam. Which–

_I still can’t get over the fact you think Liam’s cute._

_The literal pup? You think about him that way._

Stiles shakes his head, looks up to his reflection again, a little surprised to find his lips curved into a smile. Well, Liam _is_ a puppy. There’s really no more fitting description, even as he was wolfed out in that van to Mexico. _Adorable_ , Void sounded in his head back then, completely amused, and maybe that made Stiles reach Liam, some new streak of courage or carelessness, give him a new mantra. It worked, so, win-win.

Tracing the new rune, he thinks about all the ideas running through his head for new ones. He can see himself from waist up in the large mirror above the sink, there’s a lot of space to work on, lots of skin to use for new designs. This one is necessary – Stiles decided on it as soon as they were on their way back from Mexico. It’s a vigilant eye, designed and drawn to alarm him of any oncoming threats – after what happened at school, in Eichen, even in Mexico, he’s had enough of being unpleasantly surprised. It’s also the same burgundy color of his first rune, as is the parallel cloaking one, only the one on his chest inky black.

Stiles is focused on tracing the lines, feeling the quiet, buzzing energy running through his veins, so he notices it a while too late – a presence, cool and familiar, pressing against his back.

 _Ink looks good on you, darling_.

His whole body stiffens, blood rushing in his ears, because the murmur brushed against his neck, hot breath on his skin. Fingers run lightly over his left collarbone, down to the rune, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

When he looks up, Void’s there, gazing back at him from the mirror, curled around Stiles’ back with a smirk adorning pale lips. His breath gets stuck somewhere in his chest, but he doesn’t dare to look away, look down. The touch travels to his neck, fingers curling around his throat, and there’s another hand, right against the black rune, strong arm around his middle. Shiver crackles down Stiles’ spine, traps a whimper against his clenched teeth, push him against the presence – Void’s palm presses on the rune and Stiles’ knees buckle. The sigil _burns_ , right through muscle and bone alike.

_Maybe you should add more, little fox, what do you think?_

His nose nuzzles behind Stiles’ ear, hot breath tingling over skin that’s starting to feel oversensitive, his fingers are cold, but they’re waking heat where they brush along Stiles’ body.

Void’s crowding around him, presence building up like a physical being, the similarities and differences so starkly visible now in the mirror. They have basically the same body, but Void’s paler, his hair are inky black where Stiles’ are dark chocolate, purple bruises under midnight eyes that shouldn’t look that good, the lines of his face sharper, so much sharper, shadowed – and he’s just that bit taller, his shoulders just a little wider, palms bigger, fingers longer. The demon is a shapeshifter, Stiles is aware, but that means– It means he did that _on purpose_.

Stiles gasps, shudders, as sharp teeth nip at his neck. He’s getting hot, too hot, there’s a knot of tension inside his gut that doesn’t have _any reason_ to be there.

Hum sounds against his throat, the hand on his chest moves, feather-light, fingers trailing lower, over his sternum, down, over his abs–

Stiles' stomach spasms under the touch and he reels back. The presence, the phantom feeling disperses as he staggers away to his room, gasping and shaking, only a ghost of sensation tingling along his nerves. The rune doesn’t burn, but still exudes heat.

_Don’t–_

The words get lost, because Stiles doesn’t really know what he wants to say, what he _wants_ , what he should or shouldn’t, it’s a whole lot of mess in his head right now, he’s burning up from the inside, and it’s _not helping_. The air won’t stay in his lungs, he’s getting too close to– Shit, _shit_ –

_Breathe, little one, breathe, it’s alright._

Of course, _that_ again.

Nonetheless, it helps. Void’s voice is a low murmur, smoothing over the edges of panic almost like a physical thing.

_You’re alright, Stiles, it’s alright. I won’t do anything, not unless you want it..._

He’s only half-registering the words, using the slow, steady cadence of Void’s tone to calm himself down, matches his breathing to the pulse going through his chest, shadows guiding him through, until his heart isn’t racing anymore and the air stays inside. It’s barely enough before a knock sounds from his door and it’s still a few seconds as Stiles realizes his dad’s home. Some few months back the sheriff would walk in right after, but now he refrains – closed door means Stiles is messing with magic, so better proceed with caution.

Tugging a shirt on, he calls out a muffled „come in!” and a second later meets his dad’s gaze.

„Everything alright?”

„Huh?” Stiles needs to look around, spot the supplies clattered on the floor, and promptly blush. „Ah, yeah, just tripped, you know me, still as clumsy, even with magic.”

His dad’s gaze is both exasperated and fond as he stands there, perched on the door-frame, one hand on the door’s handle.

„I saw Lydia coming out some time ago. Everything went well?”

It’s weird to hear that, but at the same time, it doesn’t imply what it would some time ago. Now dad knows they’re friends and that she sometimes helps him with the „magic stuff”, so that’s why he’s asking.

„Yup, she painted my new rune, want to see?”

„Sure.”

So Stiles comes closer, drawing the neck of his shirt away enough to show off his new sigil. Dad looks it over critically, ponders, then looks back at him.

„And what’s this one for?”

„Vigilance. Awareness,” he shrugs, lets the shirt realign, „for warning me of any threats coming.”

That makes his dad’s mouth quirk into a relieved smile – and it also makes Stiles feel incredibly guilty, even though it’s not really his fault. Not all of it, anyway.

„That’s good.” The sheriff nods to himself, decisively, then turns a little, clearly ready to go. „It’s getting late, you heading to sleep or...?”

„Yeah, I think I will, I’m honestly exhausted.” It’s already dragging at his limbs, both the events of previous days and whatever happened just moments ago, he’s too fucking tired.

Hid dad’s eyes are way _too understanding._

„Do that, kiddo. I’ll be downstairs.”

They say their goodnights, then the door clicks shut and Stiles sags, all the energy left draining away on a sigh. His nerves tingle as he strips from the shirt, sweatpants and crawls into bed, a bit of nervousness scratching at his ribs from the inside. It’s his own, the shadows in his chest quiet, withdrawn. Stiles right down refuses to think back to the mirror, the bathroom, because that’s a load of issues he’s too exhausted to dissect now, but still– The nagging is too insistent to let him sleep peacefully.

Burrowing into his pillows, Stiles sighs, tightens the blankets around his shoulders, then releases a long, winded breath – and with it the rest of his fraying nerves.

_It’s alright..._

He thinks it quietly, a whisper of a breath, just barely edging on his consciousness. For a long moment there’s no sign he’s been heard, almost long enough to start up his nerves again, but before it can happen, the presence’s back.

Just a brush, barely there, through his hair, over his cheekbone, a tender caress that feels straight out of a dream, cool and soothing like nothing else seems to be these days. Stiles takes it, leans into it, doesn’t think about it settling around him, pretends that it’s just for tonight, that it doesn’t affect him as much as it does, then exhales a small breath and lets himself be lulled into sleep.

✦✧✦✧

Stiles can’t be sure where exactly he is – the surroundings are constantly changing, blurry around the edges, once his bedroom, once the living room, once the clearing, and sometimes it isn’t even anything familiar. Only thing he knows is that he’s sitting, fully leaned on a body behind him, strong, unrelenting, caging him in. Shivers rack down his spine as his breath hitches, one cool hand pressed against chest, against a rune that burns white-hot, the arm keeping him still, keeping him close and steady while the world spins.

_So good for me..._

It whispers, echoes, thousand voices from thousand places, deep and raspy and _dark._

He can’t help but arch into the touch, clutch at the arm keeping him arrested, whine as another hand travels down his chest, over his quivering abs, tortuously slow. The want, the need, a fierce yearning for _more,_ consumes his whole consciousness.

Too sharp teeth nip at his throat as cool fingers curl around him and Stiles moans, obscenely, into the echoing silence. His panting fills the air, the darkness creeping around the edges, reaching for him like a lover, like the body solid and cool against his back, every point of contact searing hot _._

The world right up ceases to exist as Stiles’ head falls back, as he keens low in his throat at too slow of a pace that makes his hips stutter and buck up, searching for more friction. A dark chuckle sounds in the crook of his neck, warm and raspy, slipping down his skin like liquid chocolate, lips mouthing over the column of his throat. _Oh_ , how he yearns for those lips, those teeth all over him.

_Soon, Stiles, be patient._

He doesn’t want to, he’s as far from patient as one could be. His whole body jerks upward as a thumb slides slick over sensitive flesh, presses enough to edge the pleasure on pain and Stiles gasps, something wet slipping past his burning cheek. Hot tongue licks it over, a low purr sounding through the air.

_Soon, little fox._

Stiles shakes as the hand keeping him close travels up, fingers spreading over his throat, under his jaw, but he turns to the voice on his own. He can’t see, the shadow’s image blurry and dark, there’s no light around to see, but he feels him, with every fiber of his being – the cool chest at his back, the touch making him spin with pleasure too sweet and heavy, the tug in his chest an insistent pull drawing him in. The only thing on his mind, an impossible longing eating away at his sanity, are those lips – pale, grinning, soft, close, so _close_ , but he can’t reach them, he _wants them_ , he wants them so much it hurts, he _needs_ a taste.

_Soon–_

The arm presses, on the rune that feels like licks of fire, fingers tightening on his neck, just enough to feel possessive, the hand working him to completion grips harder, twists – and Stiles jerks forward, mouth falling open. The lips are so close, so close, _please–_

_–you’ll be mine._

Wet-hot tongue licks right into his mouth and Stiles moans as he surges awake.

The vision disperses instantly, fades as he pants into the air and shakes from the spike of pure ecstasy, whole body thrumming with the pleasure that feels like a dirty, forbidden secret. All at once everything’s too hot and sticky and his brain gets fogged up in the shameless bliss. For just a moment Stiles considers ignoring the mess, but some leftover, phantom feeling of cool touch makes his whole body shiver, rut into the bed and he needs to bite into the pillow to stop himself from moaning again. Instead he gets up and rushes for the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus:  
>  _*Liam shows up*_  
>  **Void, in Stiles’ head:** This one’s cute.  
>  _*Liam wolfs out in the van to Mexico*_  
>  **Void, yet again** : Aww, the puppy’s angry. Adorable.
> 
> Yes, sometimes I think I'm funny and this is what happens when I'm trying to write ;p Hope you enjoyed the chapter! One last info - updates may slow down a bit. I do intend to finish this story, it's my baby, no way I'm _not_ finishing it, but due to my arms still not in full health and me wanting to have some chapters ready in advance it's just a lot slower now.  
> If you're curious about my process, updates and the likes, I post a lot more about this story over on my tumblr raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - so you can check it out and always be the first to know how LitA is going ^^
> 
> As always, all the love to you, guys ❤ I dunno how you do it, but whenever I feel down and have doubts about this story, I'll get kudos/bookmark or a comment that will immediately make my day and I can't thank you enough for that ❤ Also, 3k hits and over 200 kudos?! Guyssssss ❤❤❤


	8. the cracks are showing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, did we finally arrive at some fluff?

Six months. Exactly six months. That’s how long peace lasted in Beacon Hills. Too good to be true, as always. Still, these are good months and Stiles makes the most of them while they last.

His left arm and shoulder get steadily more covered, new designs, bonds, sigils and runes interwoven. Most serve to ground him, quiet down a little his steadily growing magic – which seems to expand and surge and constantly in search for moments to burst free, every time that much stronger – and Stiles enjoys making them, the whole process giving him an outlet to focus on, to direct his power into, sate it even if for a little bit. So between school, going out with his friends, building up the pack and strengthening the wisps of bonds, he’s coming up with new sigils, new paints, ropes Lydia into drawing them, which she doesn’t try to hide she likes after all this time, and gets constantly more used to the presence lurking around.

The cool phantom brushes become another part of his life – carding through his hair, fleeting over his cheekbones, trailing down his neck, his shoulders. At first he ignored it, didn’t respond, hammering it into his own mind that it’s not worth it, that if he won’t cave in and give a reaction it’ll make it less real, but weeks go by, then months, and it’s still there, the same, not crossing any imaginary boundaries Stiles knows are embedded somewhere in his mind, tall walls of roots and ivy, chipped off steadily, day by day, week by week, until it’s a nicely trimmed bush and he didn’t even realize – because at some point he started to lean in, welcome the sensation of his hair getting swept away from his face, of almost solid touch working out the kinks in his shoulders, tense from sitting too long at desks, at school or in his own room. It’s so slow, so gradual, that when he finally notices, it’s with the cool embrace around him, a distinct impression of chin resting on his right collarbone, arms circled around his middle.

Stiles is hunched over a new design on his desk, all at once aware of Void’s almost solid presence, of warm breath brushing against his cheek, and grows rigidly still, hot gooseflesh erupting on exposed skin.

_Everything alright, little one?_

It’s almost a sigh, like he knows perfectly well what’s going through Stiles’ head, like he _expected it_ , at some point, a murmur so soft and low it’s curling with something both fierce and melting in his chest.

Stiles licks his lips, holds back the shiver that’s trying to break free across his skin. How did he not notice? _Well_ , okay, he did, he just ignored it, as always, thinking it would somehow go away, but– Did he want it to? Did he want it to go away?

The dryness in his throat is increasingly harder to swallow as he thinks to those months past, to every little moment of phantom caress, of the cool embrace he started to welcome as it curled around him at night, the perfect balance under heavy, warm blankets, keeping him still and calm through the night, of the increasingly rarer nights in the dream’s clearing, of the demon choosing time and time again to be with him throughout the day instead of giving Stiles those lonely hours after each meeting, of Void’s patient voice, knowing smirk and wicked humor, meeting Stiles’ sarcasm with razor-sharp wit, _but–_ Well, ever since his panic, since the „mirror accident”, the demon never tried anything – wormed his way into his good graces, yes, but nothing more–

It pulses, hot and fierce, in his chest, with a knot of tensing feelings too chaotic to interpret. Stiles is not ready to face those, yet when the embrace starts to retreat, taking with it the comforting warmth that anchored itself in him somewhere along the way, he’s finding himself uselessly trying to grab the impression to make it _stay_ and saying that, _Yes, everything’s perfectly alright_ , in a much too cheery tone even for his thoughts. His hands flail around, going right through where the presence halted its retreat, nothing solid or tangible or in any way different than air and his own clothes under Stiles’ fingertips – it spears a blade through his lungs, freezing cold and too sharp to handle, but he won’t let it be acknowledged. And so he waits – a second that feels like an hour – for it to disappear or for the voice to tease him or for _something_ , then the phantom touch moves, _finally_ , and resettles back against him. The breath Stiles was holding releases far too quickly.

_If you say so._

The voice is perfectly even as the demon answers and Stiles can feel it, the nuzzle right under his ear, small and short, but his chest tightens, the shadows inside shivering with delight and– no, _nope_ , ignoring that too.

Too much, too soon, too everything.

He looks down at the design, a large one, the past-time project of last weeks.

_Starting to look pretty, huh?_

The blatant change of topic is obvious, but Stiles doesn’t care, he needs to focus on something else. And Void takes it in stride, a small hum sounding before his next words.

_Sure does, darling. Will look good on you._

Clearing his throat, Stiles refuses to look away or acknowledge the heat rising on his face. That’s been going on for some time now, too, and again, it’s almost like he’s _flirting,_ which – that’s a thought he won’t entertain. Instead, he chooses to focus on the design.

It’s a tree that should cover most of his back when finished. He took the Celtic imagery, the roots and crown in almost the same size, but didn’t confine it in a circle or an oval – instead, between the branches are woven the elements. Fire, water, wind, earth as the fundamental ones, but there’s light also, darkness, aether, spirit, metal, wood and mind. There will be colors associated with every part, because it didn’t feel right to make it with just one paint, even if it already entailed a long process. Void offered his input and Lydia’s been helping him too, because he’s no artist, but mostly she left just minor notes. Sometimes coming up with sigils seemed more natural to Stiles than anything else.

For now it’s still only halfway finished, the rest a rough draft, but it’s... quite honestly beautiful. And some small part of Stiles was swelling with pride, looking at it.

_You_ should _feel proud, Stiles, it is beautiful. And will look even better on you._

_Yeah, well,_ Stiles needs to physically clear his throat, again, his cheeks basically burning by now, _it’s not like I would be able to see it on myself that much anyway._

Void chuckles at that, the sound warm, smooth, right through Stiles’ skin and straight down his spine.

_I’m sure others will appreciate the sight for you._

It’s a low rasp against his skin, right under his ear, and this time it shudders in his shoulders, coils something in his gut that’s too hot to be comfortable. Stiles squirms a little in his chair, then waves a hand at the phantom, going right through without disturbing the embrace, the freezing sharp edge only an echo, and peers back over his design.

_Don’t distract me. I want to finish at least a few branches before Lydia comes over._

There’s the chuckle again, a bit more amused, a bit softer around the edges, but Void settles nonetheless, seeming content to just watch him work. Until–

_I guess you’d like some privacy then, with your little banshee-queen._

A little something rings under the nonchalance, but it’s too far away, too hidden, too small to catch, he’d miss it if he wasn’t looking, yet it doesn’t seem that much threatening. Maybe it only meant Void’s noticed Stiles was keeping something from him – and he only just recently learned he could even do that, seal it away in his mind with the magic thrumming in his blood. It’s not much, the demon could probably tear it down and look, but for now he respects the privacy Stiles desperately needs. Especially for what he wants to touch on with Lydia today, it hits too close to– to pretty much everything going on right now. So Stiles appreciates it, lets himself trust in that little bit of reassurance. He probably shouldn’t, but– The paranoia and anxiety are going to be the death of him, so at least in his own mind, with his magic, he wants to get a break.

_Yeah, I’d... I would really appreciate it..._

_Of course,_ a hand brushes through his strands, slowly, and Stiles leans into the touch without much thought, _you need only ask, Stiles._

That’s another thing. Something Void seems to repeat a lot these days. The words are heavy with meaning, heavier even when he can see those midnight eyes shining, hooded, too heated to let him think straight. The power in his veins hums, little sparks of electricity, like it knows something Stiles doesn’t, which is ridiculous, but he ignores it with the rest of the topics he’s too tired to look at now, just murmurs a thanks and gets back to his future-tattoo, letting them fall into easy silence.

✦✧✦✧

Lydia watches him from above the lip of her mug as Stiles drums his fingers absently against his own, tea kept hot with just a thought. They’ve been meeting up a lot these days, and not only to draw him a new rune – for some weeks now Stiles was trying to share some of the knowledge he already had, making simple charms, spells, explaining the qualities of herbs, stones and runes, peering together over his books. With time it turned more into exploring and discovering what her banshee abilities were capable of than anything else, but that was good in and of itself. And the more time they spent together, the more Stiles was sure he could pinpoint the connection, the pack bond growing stronger.

It’s a recent thing, feeling them, like little wisps of strings attached to every member of their pack – they’re thin and frail, but he has no idea if it’s because he’s barely able to distinguish them, still new to this sense, or if they really are so weak. That, though, needed to wait, at least until he could tell something more from them. Now – now Lydia’s undivided attention is focused on him and he’s quickly losing his nerve, even when it was his idea.

„Alright, I can see it eating you up,” she says finally, placing the mug back on the table with a light click. „What is it?”

Stiles’ whole body tenses up, fingers wringing together on the table, around his own mug. This shouldn’t even be a topic to consider, but he needs to share his thoughts with someone or he’ll go insane. The demon in his mind didn’t count, the thoughts revolved around him too much. Which is exactly the problem.

„I’ve been thinking... about everything that happened, since– Well, since Scott got bitten basically.” He heaves a sigh, twitchy under Lydia’s sharp, attentive gaze, but, hey, that’s what he wanted, so. „And it makes me wonder, y’know, how much of the mess we could’ve avoided. If we should’ve handled it differently. No, fuck that, a lot we should’ve handled very differently, but– ”

A huff leaves him and Stiles slumps into his chair, his mind all over the place, as usual. But Lydia watches him intently, like she’s getting at what he means.

„We rarely had enough time to wonder.”

„Yeah, I know, but–”

„What is it, Stiles?” She cuts him off, eyes narrowed, and he cringes, just a little. Busted, yet again, Lydia always seemed to see right through him.

With another sigh, Stiles tries to steel his resolve, leans on the table, chin on his hands clasped together in a fist. He shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea, but so much happened...

„Okay, hypothetically – wait, let me finish – if someone, someone who hurt you in the past,” –he wets his lips, tries to meet her gaze, heart thudding in his chest so loud it’s a wonder Lydia can’t hear it– „hurt others, too, badly. Say, that someone comes back. And you learn more, y’know, the reasons, how that someone... felt then. And you start to–” His voice gives out, for a second, as his shoulders tremble. _„Fuck_ , I don’t know, understand? Like, it doesn’t change what that someone did, right? But– You can’t _not think_ about the reasons now and everything, and– And it’s a mess, because what now? How do you proceed with that information? How...”

He shakes his head, eyes falling shut as he forcefully refrains from biting on his own fingers. There’s a storm raging between his ribs and he doesn’t know how to deal with it, how to even begin coping. Lydia’s next words successfully throw him off, though.

„Is this about Peter?”

„What? _No_. I mean, I guess he fits the description, but no, nope.”

„Hm, Derek?”

„Wha– _NO._ Why would you even–”

„Is it connected to your rune?”

That shuts Stiles up.

For a long, dreadful moment he doesn’t know what he should do with himself, only gapes at Lydia, mouth open and heart possibly stopping for a few beats. He should’ve known letting her see the rune would bite him in the ass. Still... As he battles with himself, considering and reconsidering, a spark of understanding shines in her hazel eyes – and her whole posture softens.

„Does that someone plans on hurting others again?”

She leans closer, but the question is gentle. Stiles swallows thickly, hands clasped together so tightly he fears he’ll break his own bones.

„I– I don’t know.”

And he truly doesn’t. Because it requires thinking about _what ifs_ that are too terrifying with the way they close up his throat and make his heart skip beats for several different reasons. Stiles may suspect, alright, could form a lot of predictions, but that’s something he refuses to even try.

A small prod comes from his connection then, a silent request, something almost like concern, and he waves at it, hopefully dismissive. It eases out, but he’s pretty sure he wasn’t convincing. That, though–

Lydia taps perfectly manicured fingers on the handle of her red mug, eyes slightly narrowed.

„Would they hurt _you_?”

It’s so soft he might have not caught it in any other situation. As it is, it cuts deep inside, into the pulsing shadows in his chest, sharp and unyielding, and Stiles needs to think on that one because...

„No, I– no, I don’t think so...”

Stiles’ mind goes back, unbidden, to that time that feels so long ago, ridden with nightmares and getting lost in his own mind, of fighting everything that was happening – and yet from such a distance it doesn't look as horrifying. It could’ve been so much worse. The coaxing, as terrifying as it’s been, from the demon could’ve been torture as much as it was terror. On a rare occasion when Stiles is alone in his mind, he sometimes wonders – how much of it was Void’s doing, truly, how much was the sacrifice, this… darkness around his heart, and his mind trying to protect itself, his own fears amplifying it, the memory of– of his mom losing her sanity. At the end of his musings Stiles is none the wiser and always dismisses that one nagging thought ( _hope_ ) he won’t let himself indulge in – that for some unfathomable reason Void _wanted_ him.

Shaking his head, he throws all those thoughts away yet again. Mutters what won’t leave him:

„It doesn’t make any sense.”

And Lydia’s silent for a moment, watching him closely with a calculating eye that lacks the expected coldness, like she somehow gets it, whatever it is.

„Well, do you know what that someone wants now?”

It shouldn’t, but the words make shiver run down Stiles’ spine, hot, tingling, little crackles of energy. His magic hums, yet he can’t – or _won’t_ – decipher what it means.

„Well, there’s certainly one thing he wants,” it’s more bitter than it has any right to, because how could a trapped demon want anything but its freedom back, _that_ makes perfect sense, „but aside from that... I have no idea.” The words taste sour, bad in his mouth, and his blood rushes with magic that seems vaguely irritated at him, like he just gave an incorrect answer to a simple question. He ignores it in favor of watching Lydia’s piercing gaze see right through him.

„Stiles, do you know what’s one of your best qualities?”

That throws him off alright.

„Do you mean my impeccable sense of humor? Or my dashing good looks?” It drips with his special brand of sarcasm, of course.

Lydia only rolls her eyes, too used to him to react otherwise.

„You’re good at reading people,” she says, no trace of humor and completely serious. „Somehow, you always know who we should not trust, who’s the biggest threat. I don’t know why Scott never listens–” An irritated sight cuts her own words in half, then she shakes her head a little. „We never listened, I guess, and we should know better now. You were right. Every time.”

His heart speeds up, beats against his ribs almost to the point of pain, and he’s not sure what to do with those words. They’re... true, in a way, he always did have his gut telling him who’s shady as fuck. He just... followed his instincts and somehow, most of the time, they turned out to be reliable, but–

„That doesn’t mean I can’t be manipulated, though, does it?”

The way it leaves his mouth, defeated, not even bitter, just straight-up tired, _sad,_ almost, which – _what?_

Lydia straightens, looks him dead in the eyes, a vicious, no-bullshit banshee queen.

„There’s not a least likely person to get manipulated than you, you’re too paranoid to fall for that–”

„Well, gee, thanks–”

„–unless someone played right into it, which I still doubt would work. _But_ if it ever happened,” something in her eyes, her tone, both softens and steels into a blade, „I would know. And I wouldn’t let it happen.”

He blinks, pushes away the blurriness trying to descend on his vision, and musters a tiny smile. His heart is racing, with something warm and fierce budding around it. A thread of a bond, tingling with reassurance. Is this how pack feels? Because that’s great.

„Thanks, Lyds...”

A small smile lifts her red-painted lips, genuine and soft, but just as Stiles expects this conversation to be over and done with, something new shines in Lydia’s eyes, something–

„Well,” her voice takes on a lilt that immediately puts Stiles on edge, even with the smile still in place, „is this finally the time you’ll tell me about your secret rune?”

She tries for light, for a bit of teasing, to ease Stiles’ nerves, but he can’t exactly help the way he tenses up. And it’s not that he forgot, he _promised_ , after all, it’s just that– Dancing around the topic became so normal it seems impossible to do anything else.

Stiles swallows thickly, mouth gone dry.

„I– I can’t, Lyds, I’m sorry, I–” His voice catches and Stiles has no idea how to continue, what to say, other than. „I want, I do, but–”

„It’s alright, I get it.” Lydia cuts him off, nodding slightly with that upturn in the smile that hits a little too close to home. „You need to face it first yourself.”

And isn’t it the crust of the problem?

„Yeah, about that…”

A dry kind of chuckle slips from Stiles’ lips as he shakes his head, remembers that day, that particular meeting in the clearing that sends an electric shiver down his spine. He can’t talk about it, not yet, but he _does_ want to share something with Lydia, anything, when she seems to get it so well without any sort of judgment. So maybe he could–

„I wanted it, you know. I _chose_ it, on my own. I didn’t have to make it–” his fingers reach up to brush against his shadow’s rune on their own, tracing the lines that seem to ripple and heat up from the touch even through the material of the shirt „–but I did. And– And it’s not bad. It _isn’t_. It’s… good. It’s… actually good.” Stiles almost laughs at his own revelation – instead, a smile lifts his lips as his unfocused eyes stare off into the distance, an echo of a phantom over his skin and a weight falling off that he never even knew was there.

„You do look better.”

Lydia’s voice startles him back to reality and Stiles’s mind backtracks so fast he’s pretty sure he got a whiplash, a pink blush creeping up his neck and his face as Lydia watches him with eyes shining.

„I do?” he croaks, at loss for any response.

Her smiles quirks in the corners, a hint of humor passing her face as she nods, before the look slips away for a more serious one.

„You’re always looking out for us, y’know,” she starts, voice softer than he expected, and where does that even come from– „And I hope you won’t stop because God knows we need it, so–” She reaches out, hands curling around his own, still holding onto his mug, and maybe it should be awkward, but it’s warm and reassuring instead. And when Stiles looks up, her eyes are soft. „–you deserve something good too.”

The words floor him, so unexpected and so genuine it _hurts_ , just a little.

„If this is what you want, what makes you happy,” Lydia’s eyes sparkle, in a way that makes his chest tight and kind of lost for breath, „I’m with you, whatever it is.”

„Lyds–”

„I mean it.”

She squeezes his hand and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to turn his around and return the gesture.

It’s a little heartbreaking, he thinks, that it’s more than probable that when he finally musters the courage to tell her, or when it gets out of hand, inevitably, she _will_ change her mind, take it all back, because how could she say this if she truly knew?

But it’s also exactly what he needs now, so Stiles lets himself believe it, believe she’ll stay by her word and it’ll all be alright, in the end.

„Thank you, I… It– It means a lot.”

They trade another tender, soft kind of smile, then Lydia squeezes his hand one last time, then nods, decisively, and that’s that, it seems. But Stiles does feel better, the tight knot of tension eases in his chest, thrumming with new intent that he’ll wonder about later because Lydia’s already changing topics.

„So, you want to work on your tree?”

„Yeah, c’mon, I made some updates...”

And so they spent the next few hours pouring over designs, styles, matching them to the elements and parts of the tree. It’s fun and lighthearted and makes his blood sing in content. Somewhere along the way Void’s presence slips back in place, a little chill along his spine, hot on the inside of his skin, prods him a bit, but when Stiles sends reassurance down the connection, the demon doesn’t try to see what he’s covering up, settles to watch quietly, lets them work in companionable chatter. An hour or two in, Lydia peers over one of his newest books that Stiles didn’t even have a chance to dive in, then takes it into her slender hands and looks inside.

„Didn’t know you were interested in Buddhism,” her gaze falls on another book that was under the one she holds, „or Hindi mythology. Something caught your attention?”

„Well, a lot of my magic seems energy-based?” Stiles bites the end of his pencil, not sure how to describe it, the way his very being thrummed with power. „I need to control it and, I dunno, I guess it felt right when I looked those up.” He gestures for the books vaguely, almost at the exact moment that a certain page catches Lydia’s attention. „ _What_? What is it?”

„Well, that may be helpful.” She turns the book to him, a drawing filling the whole page.

It’s a silhouette, sitting cross-legged, with points of colorful symbols along its spine. Chakras, it reads in the image’s description, and the way it makes his magic surge with interest is undeniable. He’s reaching for the book and peering over it before he can blink, feeling Void’s interest stirring alongside his.

_Could work quite well, little one, it may center you better._

Stiles hums under his breath, absently, in agreement, while Lydia watches him with interest. His head tilts, looking the picture over, then he tilts the book, makes the quickest read about the different colors that are pointed out on the adjacent page, then his gaze flits over his tree, the design stretched over his desk.

„You think I could fit those in?” he muses, voices the question to both of his companions without realizing it.

Void’s only positive response is a quiet hum, echoing inside Stiles’ chest, but Lydia steps closer, looking between both images, a little crease between her brows.

„You can paint them along your spine,” she says, slowly, takes the book from him and puts the picture alongside his much larger design. „Then paint the tree around it, y’know–”

„Center the bark on the chakras.” His voice comes out half-wonder, half-gleeful. He’s already grinning as the excitement mixes with his magic’s interest. „I knew something was missing from the design!”

„That’s what I’m here for, am I not?” She smiles at him, eyes a bit narrowed, teasing if she ever did, but Stiles’ grin only stretches further.

„You’re the best,” he says, seriously, then puts the book on the desk, beside the paper holding his future-tattoo. „But now we need to redesign the whole thing.”

„Maybe not the whole thing...”

And they get right back to work, pull up a clear sheet of paper, half-translucent, so they can put it together in parts first. Stiles is constantly amazed by Lydia’s creative ideas and talent, so he lets her get on the chakras right away – it feels right, to let her do the symbols and their small intricate details. As they talk, it occurs to Stiles that he could get them on himself first, too, then actually paint the tree around it on his back. Food for thought as they work around what’s already sketched of the tree – it won’t be close to finished for a long time yet and lots longer before Stiles’ will put it on his back, his magic is clear on that one.

When Lydia leaves hours later, Stiles gets into reading the book left on his desk and Void’s cool presence fits right against his back.

_You do know you should try and access them first, before you put the symbols on yourself._

_Yeah, you’re probably right._

Phantom impression of hands falls to Stiles’ shoulders and he relaxes under them without even noticing, letting the cool touch brush up against his skin.

_Care to elaborate, though?_

Void hums, a distinct feel of fingers brushing through Stiles’ messy hair, then slipping down his head, to his neck, pressing on a knot of tension that makes Stiles shudder, just a little, as it releases.

_Unlocking them will make you more aware of the energy residing in your body. Getting familiar with them first would be preferable to suddenly getting overwhelmed, don’t you think? Learn to control what you can first, then try accessing them more permanently. We don’t want you getting hurt, do we?_ Hot breath dances on Stiles’ face, a brush of a touch on his cheek, and he leans into it on autopilot. _Or shaking the house down, I guess. A lot could happen. Painting them one at a time would be better, too. Help you adjust to the feeling._

Stiles taps the end of the pencil on his lip, thoughts circling around the words. They make a lot of sense, as per usual, and he shudders a bit in quite a different way as he thinks what exactly could happen if he gained an awareness of enormous amounts of energy, putting the full set of symbols at once. That one time he woke up shaking the whole house was quite enough. The worst, though, was that impossible to explain feeling, a pit of dread, certain beyond any rationality, that it would happen again one way or another.

The presence shifts, presses to his back more firmly, works down his shoulders, and Stiles exhales, leaning into it, eyes still on the tree and the page of his book. He’s going to make it work, somehow.

_Of course you will, darling._

It’s soft, and warm, and carrying a faith that Stiles rarely hears in anyone directed at him. The touch firms, shifts, slipping down to his chest, covering the rune pulsing with heat, but it’s a phantom, a ghost of feather-light caress, and a fierce ball of something intense, intimate coils between his ribs, steals a little air out of Stiles’ lungs. He has to close his eyes as his vision blurs all at once for some strange reason, then gathers all of those vicious emotions mixing together into a storm in his rib-cage, puts them into a box, locks up with trembling magic, then chucks to the back of his mind along all the rest of those same boxes. The darkness around his heart, pulsing shadows in sync with the beat, writhe in something akin to disappointment, a tender feeling that Stiles pushes away as well, redirecting all the focus he can on the design laid out on the desk.

Void’s quiet through his small breakdown, steady amidst the chaos, and isn’t it _ironic_.

_Something the matter?_

Stiles’ heart thuds, rocks against his ribs, hard enough to hurt in a weird, fierce way that doesn’t want to fade, but as the touch brushes against his cheek, different, warm somehow, the phantom hands still pressed along his chest, it soothes something deep inside him, a constant ache he’s used to ignoring now. So he ignores it further, ignores the storm raging on the horizon, forcefully kept in the darkest recesses of his mind, and focuses on the ghostly caress, on the connection thrumming with calm, soft, _warm,_ exhales a long breath imagining the building tension expelling itself out with the air from his lungs. It helps, if just a little.

_No,_ he thinks, blinks, leans more on the desk and puts all of his mind on the design, _I’m fine._

The impression shifts, like a sigh.

_Stiles,_ the murmur is only slightly chiding, rings with something that coils deep in Stiles’ chest, _you must be aware you’ll have to face it one day._

That’s not what he wants to hear right now, because _he knows that_ , knows it perfectly well, thank you very much, but it’s not today.

_Yeah, and you’d know something about that,_ Stiles thinks and promptly cringes, even when there’s no reaction. _Sorry, just... can we get back to my tree? I’m not–_

_It’s perfectly alright,_ Void soothes, the phantom press on his cheek turned into a brushing caress. _Now, do get to that tattoo, you have some reworking to do._

The touch retreats from his face, leaves a tingling sensation behind that makes Stiles want to chase it, but the feel of ghostly fingers carding through his hair distracts him enough with little shivers of pleasure the head massage brings. So Stiles gets back to his task, pencil already sketching a new version of his future tattoo, getting lost in the flow of his thrumming magic and the presence not once leaving his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a filler chapter laying some groundwork for later, this one, but I guess Stiles needs a break, huh? ;p He'll get one chapter of that more and then... well, we'll see ;> And more of Lydia! Gods, I love her... Hope I'm getting her right ;p 
> 
> Also, today I'm leaving for a week-long family boat trip! So I'm probably gonna be late with replaying, but I'll be sure to check-in every once in a while - I'm nothing if not infinitely curious about your thoughts ❤ There may be a delay to the next chapter too - I dunno if I'll be able to write anything on the trip - but we'll see, maybe I'll get a bout of inspiration and my arms heal up some through the week ^^
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! As always, you can find me over on tumblr @raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here. All the love ❤


	9. a great appetite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later than planned, but here's an update! Some more fluff, some more of Stiles' wonderings and a spin on how I view Void here, hope you like it!
> 
> And if you're wondering what I've been up to in the meantime, this Beauty and the Beast Voiles AU just wouldn't leave me alone, so here's a one-shot for it - [Tale as old as time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198992) \- a piece I'm quite proud of and a kind of teaser for what's coming ^^ It may get turned into a long fic after LitA ;p 
> 
> Anyway, that's all for now, hope y'all will enjoy this update!

For a blessed few months Stiles’ sleeps well, no nightmares and no fevers. And although he’s glad to be rid of the former, the lack of the latter… As much as they made his face burn and his body alight, as embarrassing as it’s been to moan into the night with nothing but the faintest memory of a dream, the lack of them is grating, in a way, and makes for a very different kind of frustrated tension to build up under his skin.

Then the nightmares come back. But they’re different, this time around.

Now he sees his pack falling apart, tearing at the seams, turning on each other or drifting in different directions as he watches, pleads, fights a battle already lost. In the end he stands alone, empty, the darkness around his heart screaming, a mourning so overwhelming and all-encompassing he wakes with tears leaking down his face.

And Void’s there – or rather, his presence is. Brushing down his face, his neck, through his hair, a touch lighter than feathers, but one that Stiles came to take comfort from, one that’s always there, always with him, no matter what his paranoia’s screeching at him. The nightmares, though, feel like more than simple fears, his magic’s unsettled in a weird way when he wakes up, displaced, cautious, not the vicious vengeance it normally is as he’s hurting. It’s freezing the very blood in his veins, but Beacon Hills stays quiet, no disturbance on the horizon, and Stiles finds his mind wandering.

He doesn’t really know what brought it on. Was it his recent talk with Lydia, the restlessness in his blood, the anticipation of when everything will go to shit again, the surprising quiet after the Mexico mess, or was it the way he feels absolutely content to open eyes to the Nemeton’s clearing, to Void waiting for him, not as often as he used to yet regular, a routine settled through months. Was it that long already? Sometimes he can’t tell, sometimes it feels like it wasn’t even real in the first place, what led to their connection.

When he shows up that night in the clearing, Void takes one look at him, the attentive dark gaze both a thrill and a blade on his skin, then nods, more to himself it seems, and gestures for him to settle down. So they sit, facing each other, a foot of space between their crossed legs, a Spark and his shadow, as the questions build on Stiles’ tongue. He isn’t even sure what he should ask, but he just... he wants to know, to hear.

„Can I ask you something?”

A dark, thinner than his brow raises up, indicating just how unimpressed Void is, but it’s also a prompt to go on. The demon seems a bit amused at Stiles’ nerves, but under it hides a seriousness that’s honestly surprising. Stiles licks at his lips, heaves a sigh, ignores Void’s eyes lazily tracing the movement, and steels his resolve.

„You know I’ve already read everything I could find on kitsunes,” he starts, because it’s the only way that comes to mind. There is another question nagging, but he’s nowhere near ready to ask it. Void nods, his relaxed posture not changing. „How much of it is true?”

Not what he wants to talk tonight, but how is he supposed to–

Void tilts his head, eyes narrowing a bit, then his mouth stretches in a small smile.

„You want to ask about the time I possessed you, don’t you?” And again, it’s amused, but the edge of seriousness lurks clear.

„Well, yes, I was trying to build up to that.” Stiles huffs, slumping his shoulders, pretty much all but pouting.

„What do you want to know, little fox? I was pretty open back then, a lot must’ve bled through,” he says, surprisingly easy, „I’m pretty sure you just ignored it, pushed away.”

 _Afraid to face_ _it_ , rings true in the air, even when none of them voice it.

As much as Stiles doesn’t want to admit it, it’s true. Being possessed wasn’t much of a one-way street – yes, it was still more the demon taking over him, getting through his whole mind, but it meant some of his shadow’s did bleed through. Stiles could remember echoes of the rage, the disgust at being trapped for so long, for the one that dared to disrespect him so, he could remember the Nogitsune being both curious and vicious when trying to break him – now, though, he often wonders, if it really was supposed to break him, was there something else he couldn’t see, hidden? If there was, he still wasn’t ready to face it, not now.

„Are you still offended?” he asks instead, the story Kira’s mother told ringing in his thoughts, mixing with Void’s own words from months ago, _I’m no oathbreaker._

His shadow watches him, dark gaze thoughtful like he maybe didn’t stop to think about it since. Which was... a surprise, considering how it consumed the demon’s mind back then.

„You’re asking if I would seek retribution again,” Void speaks up finally, seeing right through him, yet again, and Stiles worries at his lip, but nods nonetheless. The demon hums, looks away. „No, I don’t think I would.” Stiles blinks, a little shocked, and Void looks back at him with a small grin. „Oh, don’t be so surprised, darling. I’m in no way less offended, but she’s barely even a Kitsune now, nothing short of torturing and killing her is left for me to do, and I’m not really interested in giving her much more of my attention. I have better things to focus on.” Void’s gaze locks on his, intense in a way that raises goosebumps along his skin, but he chooses to focus on the words instead.

„So you’re not going after her again?” he asks, dubious, brows furrowed. Deep in his chest, in the abyss residing there, he knows the demon did not lie, but still –

„If she won’t go after me first, then no, I’m not. And I doubt she will.” Pale lips curve into a sharp, vicious smirk then – it makes Stiles’ blood run hot and his body cold at the same time. „Noshiko has no tails left, she broke all of them in pursuit of killing and trapping me yet again, which she would fail if not for that little thunder kit of hers – and she can’t even teach her now. It’s pathetic, really. She’s basically human now, she will die and who knows what will happen to her then. Maybe she ceases to exist, maybe she’ll be reduced to a spirit running around earth. Honestly, I don’t care. She’ll never regain her tails or her honor, if she ever had one. So, I’d say it’s retribution enough. What would you say, Stiles, is it enough? Or should I punish her more?”

Stiles shivers, the words slicing through him like razor blades, even when the poison isn’t directed at him exactly. But he gets it, in a way. Freedom seemed to be the only thing the Nogitsune really cared about, to be free to do as he pleased, he didn’t even have to grant favors, chose to do so – then as he answered a summon, exacted the revenge requested, he’s been disrespected, killed and trapped for almost seventy years by his kin that couldn’t face the consequences of her own actions. She’s been tricked, yes, but it in no way warranted what she did in return – she called upon a trickster spirit of chaos, so that’s what she got. It makes him almost afraid, how much twisted sense it makes, and a bit surprised at what he says next.

„Maybe it’s enough, maybe not, I don’t know, it’s not my place to tell. Noshiko should’ve known better than to take away her kin’s freedom. I may not... _like_ how you chose to seek retribution, but I get it. You needed to feed and teach her a lesson, so that’s what you did.”

Turned the favor against her, showed what it meant to offend a Nogitsune, he sees it now – reigning chaos so she could see that it was all her own fault – and Void was starving after so many years, half-mad with hunger and rage.

Stiles needs to swallow down his nerves, throat gone dry at the way Void’s looking at him, attentive, something pleased, almost hungry in his gaze, before he can finish his thought. Because it’s nagging at him.

„But you got trapped again, my pack got in your way. So – would you go after them, now? My friends? Seek revenge?” It’s grating on his tongue, bitter, sour, barely making it past his lips, but he needs to know, deep, deep within the chasm of darkness, he has to know.

Void’s eyes seem to darken at the remainder, all and every trace of humor gone, but there’s no rage coming after. If anything, he seems considering, deep in thought, as he regards Stiles with a look that’s hard to decipher. Finally, he hums, a low resounding sound that somehow echoes in Stiles’ own chest.

„Depends,” he says, eyes just slightly narrowed, the implication clear in the way he locks their gazes. „They don’t concern me much. The thunder kit barely knew what she was doing, she doesn’t understand even the basics of what we are, Noshiko hasn’t taught her anything, it seems, not that it’s surprising. She’s a kit lost in the dark and she’ll struggle with her spirit because of it. And the so-called _true alpha_ is nothing more than a pup playing with grown-ups.” Void’s lips twist into a sneer for a second, a clear disgust tinging the dark tone.

Still, it’s pretty clear his shadow is more angry at being caught off guard back then than anything else – which, in and on itself, begs a question – _why_? He could have very easily killed both Scott and Kira before going after him and Lydia, Stiles knows it – with a certainty that’s a bit terrifying – yet he didn’t, got distracted, paid the ultimate price. Thinking back on it makes Stiles realize that a lot of what happened could probably be prevented, somehow, but they always seemed to end up in one mess or another. It hurts his brain to even think about what could come next in their life. And something was undeniably coming.

„I was never really after killing, if that’s any consolation.”

Stiles startles, thrown off-kilter, and looks back to the Nogitsune, its face perfectly even. And, in the weirdest, most surreal way, the words ring true.

„Allison...” The name tastes of blood gone sour, cuts the inside of his throat, but he doesn’t feel much of anything, really. It should scare him, disgust him, yet it’s only a reminder of everything that happened before.

„Ah, yes, the hunter girl.” Void grimaces, almost a sneer, before it smooths out into something colder, the midnight eyes meeting Stiles’ with a kind of terrifying intensity. „Wasn’t she home as the old hunter beat you up?” Stiles cringes, violently, then registers how dark, how freezing the voice is, _dangerous_. „I bet she knew. Of those betas, your friends, of you, how you all were tortured, hm? And she took your friend, your best friend, away, didn’t she? Though, I’d say he’s not that good of a friend if a pretty face is all it takes to make him forget his practically brother, huh? None of them deserves your friendship, Stiles, your loyalty, you’re too good for them.”

The way Void says it, low and deep, going from mocking to angry, vicious even, like he’s offended on his behalf, makes Stiles shudder. It hurts, too – not how he worded it, but the truth lurking under.

„That’s beside the point,” he manages, too tense and on edge to entertain what the demon implies.

„Maybe, maybe not.” Void straightens, his demeanor shifting back to the indifferent nonchalance. „I couldn't care less she died, the pain and strife her death caused were delicious, of course, and something I needed back then, but… if I got my way in the end, I’d have to admit it'd be more of a hindrance than anything else. I’m not about killing, the chaos and pain are quite enough, but the Oni are what they are.” Void shrugs, like it’s nothing new. „They’re demons made for killing and summoned for that exact purpose. I was playing, they were useful. She killed one of them, the other killed her in return. There’s not much more there.”

It’s so blunt, so brutally honest, but Stiles expected it, what more, he wanted the brutal truth. It hurts, a painful reminder of what happened, of what exactly Void is, not tied down by any human morals, yet it’s also comforting, the way Void doesn’t pull his punches, knows Stiles will take them right on. And it’s not even as hurtful as it should be, probably, but Stiles’ own moral compass was always a bit skewed. Or maybe it seemed that way in comparison to Scott with his black-and-white, never-kill, everyone-deserves-a-chance vision of the world, which came with a set of other problems he’s starting to see, now, but ignores, as he is adept in, clinging onto his brother. For how long he’ll be able to, that’s another question.

The words play on repeat in his head, so much meaning under them to decipher, circling back to those weeks, to the nightmares Nogitsune subjected him to, the panic, to how exactly it all played out. There’s something nagging at him, demanding his attention, a missing piece that’s just within reach, but still escaping him – but the more he thinks on it, the more it becomes clear that’s the thing he’s running from, ignoring, the intent hidden behind Void’s actions, the _why_ that scares him far more than anything else with how much he wants to ask, to know, to get an answer and how terrified of the possibility he truly is, of all the implications combined. It’s mind-boggling, a loop he doesn’t know how to escape, how to cope with.

There’s a shift in the air and before Stiles realizes, his shadow has crossed the space between them.

„Do you want to know?” he asks, leaning in, their knees pressed together. „I could show you.”

Void moves, even closer, one calf pressed to Stiles’, his other leg thrown over his lap, foot planted at Stiles’ hip, caging him in – but it’s the look on the demon’s face, the shine to obsidian eyes that arrests him completely, the weight of the offer possibly crushing. One cool hand cups Stiles jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, and he shudders. There’s a small ball of panic lodged somewhere under his ribs, about what exactly his shadow’s talking about, but his curiosity overpowers it, he _wants_ to know. So he gives a nod, acknowledges, only briefly, the small curve to those pale lips, before Void’s closing the distance, pressing their cheeks together, brushing in a gesture so soft and tender it melts something deep inside Stiles, then lays a hand over Stiles’ rune and the onslaught of sensations makes Stiles gasp for air.

It’s eerily akin to the way he felt his magic raise – a dam bursting open, a flood of emotions, thoughts, spilling and filling him up to the brim.

They’re messy, tangled, the very definition of chaos, and so much bigger than he could ever imagine, stronger, intense in a way few things are for him, but after the initial onslaught, he can find a sort of anchor, direction. First comes the rage, overwhelming, trashing, boiling in his very blood, at the very forefront – _how dare she, the filthy kit –_ then disgust, disdain, a furious, poisonous kind – _oathbreaker, kin-betrayer, no honor, not worthy of her name –_ a vicious bloodlust, vengeful kind of need to teach a lesson, to right the wrong done.

It’s mixed together in a storm, a whirlwind of hate and betrayal, stewing inside with helpless, livid sense of entrapment that tears at the very soul, a confinement that doesn’t allow any move, any room, that leaves one open, vulnerable, marinating in silence and rage, for years upon years upon _years._ They seem to drag on forever, no real sense of time, only the hunger – _starving, they’ve been starving –_ growing, nagging, pulsing in the darkness heavy from madness. It’s driving him insane, he’s never felt such hopeless rage, such vicious need to feed, so when a chance happens, _a spark_ , a flare, in the stretching prison, he _takes_ it, doesn’t hesitate, claws his way out, promises chaos and pain and strife that’ll bring the _oathbreaker_ to her dirty knees, would break and destroy, feed him for all he was starving those years. There’s a surprise among what follows, a sense of new interest, a shift in demeanor, but the vicious need for retribution still leads him, the rage hasn’t simmered down, no, it only grew until it was unbearable. So the game was on. She’d regret _everything_.

Stiles is still panting as the sensations ease-out, retreat, his forehead braced on a strong shoulder, fingers carding through his hair, petting along the ridges of his spine.

„Do you get it now, little fox?” Void asks and it’s unbearably soft, murmured right at the crown of his head.

There was an undercurrent to those last moments, a new intent that the demon glossed over – for his own or Stiles’ sake, he has no way of knowing, but Stiles is too wrung out, too emotionally drained after what he just experienced, to try and read into it. He’ll need his own head and silence, room for circling his thoughts around. He could do that in the morning. Now – now he blinks back tears and nods, slumps into the waiting arms of his shadow.

„Do you want to sleep it off?”

Again with the soft tone, liquid honey slipping down his skin. Stiles shudders, nuzzles even closer in the process, too tired to care what he’s doing, aware of what the offer truly means, and mumbles back a barely audible agreement. But that’s the only thing the demon needs before a distinct, but surely just imagined, sensation of lips on top of his head sends Stiles right into sleep – dark and calm, dreamless.

✦✧✦✧

When he wakes up, the dawn’s barely breaking, the sky outside his window lighting up with shades of orange and pink, yet he feels unusually rested, content – maybe aside from how his heart seems to race a bit too fast. There are echoes of sensations bouncing inside his chest, wisps of memories, of emotions not his but experienced like they were, maybe even more intense. It makes him wonder, as he watches the dark blue turn into a whole pallet of colors, if all those years lived, a millennium of existence, makes everything duller, makes one indifferent, or does it work exactly the opposite way, makes every single thing more powerful, makes for a new kind of hunger that’s insatiable. The thought makes Stiles shiver, an abyss between his chest pulsing in something fierce, hot. He turns on his back, watches shadows dance on his ceiling, and finds himself wondering, surprisingly, about Peter.

The wolf always made him uneasy, but he never truly stopped to think about the whys, the possible reasons. Peter lost his family, his pack, which would be enough to turn any were’ into a feral, vengeful creature, but then he spent six years in a coma, alone, stewing in hurt, rage and betrayal. Stiles stopped blaming him for most of what happened back then long ago – though he’d never forget what he did to Lydia and the way she never wanted to talk about it only served to disgust him further – and now only just starts to reconsider the events from last months.

They gave him a second chance of sorts, but he never really, truly belonged to the pack – always on the outskirts, lurking, most probably without any bonds. A wolf without a pack. An omega. Then he finds out he has a daughter, another blood relative, family, so he goes out of his way to... what? Make up for all those years? By _maybe_ giving her the alpha spark, if it worked in Mexico, by building a new pack? Was he halfway to feral again, so desperate to belong he’d do anything to give the spark to someone at least somehow close, who’d maybe consider him as pack? Malia told him Peter wanted her to kill Kate, which made a little sense, then he saw for his own eyes how Peter urged her to kill Scott-turned-Berserker before the others knew it was him. Then it all turned on Peter again, so what was he to do? Without a way out, knowing they won’t listen to him, he attacked.

Stiles huffs under his breath, remembers Peter’s now in Eichen and promptly cringes. The place is horrible even on the „normal” level, he can’t imagine what’s going on in the supernatural wing – still, he doesn’t exactly know what to do with his musings. There was a thread of mutual understanding between them, of – dare he say – respect. Peter always seemed somehow fascinated by Stiles, maybe even regretful and relieved in the same breath that he didn’t get to turn him. Stiles knows, with calm certainty, that if he got turned then, in the garage, against his will, he’d be the one to kill Peter. Would he be turned, though? Or would his spark make him immune, would he ignite back then? So many questions without answers.

The sun starts to climb above the horizon as Stiles heaves a sigh. His thoughts run freely, loose leaves playing on the wind, and he lets them, as long as his mind is free, empty, just the trickle of connection under his rune, there but quiet. It would make him uneasy, if not for the fact he knows with absolute certainty Void’s presence will be back in a few hours. So he circles back to the sensations his shadow shared with him, compares it to the wisps of memories he still has stored from _that_ time – it doesn’t even come close.

It’s true the Nogitsune was more open to him than anyone could suspect, but it was just an echo and Stiles’ mind was too over the place at that time to focus on the demon. Now, though, now he recalls the emotions, the rage, the disgust, the vengeance – and that intent, hidden, curious, driving the demon just as much as the need for retribution, but carefully kept away from Stiles. Or rather, visible enough to give him an idea, but not overwhelm with what exactly it is, a single-minded purpose from millennia of existence, centuries alone, searching. And Stiles knows, feels it in the way his heart thuds, skips a beat, and the darkness squirms, pulses, calls out. He bites his lip, hard, tries to distract himself. Because he’s not ready, he won’t believe in it, it’s ridiculous and untrue, wishful thinking–

Hot shudder goes down his body at the creeping realization, at the way his blood burns in his veins, rushes in his ears. The sun’s already peeking over his windowsill, but he doesn’t even notice – instead he frantically pushes the thoughts away, packs them in a tiny, tiny box, throws his magic at it and then chucks into the farthest, darkest recesses of his mind because _nope,_ not thinking about that. The connection throbs, tingles along his spine, and he knows it means Void will be there not long after. It’s both comforting and a little panic-inducing. Stiles needs something to occupy his mind with, but it’s Saturday, his dad’s probably already on route to the station, he’s got nothing to do...

There’s a small pit of hunger in his stomach, nothing insistent, but enough to make him think, wonder– He’s up and starting his laptop before he can consider it further, the plan of action already building inside his head.

The barest brush of cool presence at his back announces the moment Void’s back with him, a barely-there trickle of surprise along the connection as the demon watches what he’s doing, what he’s planning.

 _Can you cook?_ Stiles asks, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to ask a demon, and gets back an impression of a raised brow. _Well, then let’s hope I won’t get it wrong._

And he probably will, even though he considers himself a pretty great cook – he’s the one making food in this house, thank you very much. A distinct sense of amusement, of a low, smooth chuckle goes down the bond and makes something giddy and excited coil in Stiles’ belly. _Weird_.

_Quite a feast you’re planning on making, little fox._

_Yeah, well, I read that Kitsune have great appetites. Is it false?_

Their connection goes quiet, for just a second, and Stiles can imagine Void hiding his surprise, trying to assess what exactly he’s implying, what’s the trick he’s playing. He may feel a little foxy today, so what of it.

_No, it’s true, we do. What are you planning, Stiles?_

_A nice dinner_. He prints the recipes, makes himself a list of ingredients he needs. _Dad could use something tasty and healthy too, y’know._

Some things from the list he’ll need to drive through basically the whole Beacon Hills to get, but he still remembers the directions Kira once gave him when he got a sudden craving for sushi. Which now he’s not sure it really was sudden or that unexpected... Anyhow, his mind’s already set when Void hums in response, yet again, a distinct impression of narrowed eyes following Stiles’ every move – it makes him smile, just a little, that small giddy thing thrilled somewhere under his ribs.

It takes him the better part of the day, getting the correct ingredients, setting everything up in the kitchen, then finally cooking. Stiles can admit, though, he enjoyed himself. The drive was a quiet, relaxed thing, music on low, Void’s presence lurking in the back, striking idle conversations that had him smiling or chuckling, telling stories that made his eyes grow twice in size. Then they got back home and his shadow never once left his side, just on the edge of his senses, directing him here or there, commenting on the recipes, spices, of how it was done years back, how he most enjoys it – and Stiles followed, practically in sync, without thinking of it twice. A nice, calm atmosphere settled around his shoulders, filled the house with quiet contentment, even the magic in his veins seemed subdued, at ease to just simmer on low, let him slowly get through the day.

As Stiles finally starts setting the table, a little over an hour before his dad’s supposed to get home, a small ball of nerves rises to nip at his lungs, the pit of hunger already built up considerably – besides tasting the various dishes he barely touched food the whole day. It will probably make him a little sick after the feast he’s laying down, but if everything goes as he hopes it will, then it’ll be worth it.

This time Void stays quiet, watches him giving the food finishing touches, prods him a bit in the shadows around his chest, but doesn’t try to uncover his little secret, seems content enough to let Stiles run the show, surprise him. And Stiles can only hope he’s not making a huge mistake as he finally sits down, the various dishes almost covering the whole table. There’s _inarizushi_ , of course, the first thing that made his list, _karaage_ being the next, then some _inari maki_ , _azukimeshi_ and an udon noodle soup. It’s really a lot, but Stiles can already feel his own hunger getting twice-fold, and knowing his dad, the sheriff possibly didn’t eat the whole day too, so nothing should go to waste.

As he looks over the food, wrings his hands together, nerves fringed at the edges, Void’s cool presence presses at his back, brushes against his neck.

_Are you just going to stare at it, Stiles? It’s still a bit early for the sheriff to come back._

Stiles pulls at his fingers, one more time, hearing them pop lightly, then exhales a low breath.

_It’s mostly for you, anyway._

The cool impression of hands still, connection going deathly quiet, and Stiles feels himself panic.

_I mean, I know you’re trapped, but maybe if I let you in, for a while, then you could, I don’t know, enjoy the taste at least? I know it’s not much, it’s not going to sate any hunger you have, but–_

_Hush, little one,_ the hands brush up into his hair, down his neck, a soothing touch that calms his nerves at once, _I’m honored, truly, and in no position to possess you, if you wonder about it, so don’t worry. But yes, I suppose you could let me in close enough for me to enjoy myself, a little._ Void chuckles, hot breath stirring in Stiles’ hair. _My little fox, so clever, I’m impressed._

Hot, sharp shiver runs down Stiles’ spine at that, but he chooses not to comment on what exactly Void caught on – it probably defeats the purpose of this so-called test, but still, he already went to all the trouble, so it couldn’t go to waste, right? With that physic himself up out of the way, Stiles shakes his arms, as if trying to release the tension, calls for his magic, then through it to the shadows around his heart, to the rune heated on his skin, catches the connection and _pulls._ Cool, chilled sensation spills in his chest, spreads, pulses, fills him up so fully he gasps a little – then he opens his eyes and it’s downright _weird_. He’s still mostly himself, but he can acutely tell Void’s there with him, right under his skin, in sync with the abyss between his ribs, waiting for Stiles to get used to the feeling. As it finally settles, his magic thrumming – confused, but not protesting the merging – Stiles exhales lightly.

_Alright, go on, don’t waste it._

A small, almost giddy kind of sound leaves his throat, but it’s not entirely his, and he digs in with not his movement. All of it tastes quite exquisite, if he can say so himself, but half of the impression comes from the fox, and it’s almost startling to feel the demon as close to happiness as he’s ever been. The moves aren’t Stiles’, and that’s weird, but he still feels everything, tastes every piece, shares it with Void content in his skin. It’s strange, but in a way exciting, nerve-wracking yet comforting – to feel a millennia-old being in close enough state to almost call it bliss, merged so perfectly with him. It’s insanely intimate, too. The act of literally sharing body, mind, soul and food, sating both of them in very different ways. The tight, fierce, a little bit painful spike in his chest is Stiles’ only, but Void soothes it over with his contentment right away.

_It’s perfect, little fox, don’t worry now. Enjoy, I certainly do._

So Stiles banishes that little ball of something, settles into the connection thrumming alive and satisfied, his magic poking at it curiously, feeding it in its own way – and maybe Stiles should be afraid of that, but he’s feeling too good to worry – and lets Void taste, eat, humming low in his throat, a smile stretched on their lips. He’s practically full already when the front door opens and his dad walks in. Stiles’ panic flares up, but it’s promptly covered by his shadow’s calm, even as the sheriff comes into the kitchen with furrowed brows.

„Hi, dad!” he chirps, so Stiles-like that it’s a bit concerning. But Void only chuckles inside their shared mind, waves away Stiles’ confused feelings on the matter.

„Son, what’s all of this?” The sheriff’s also confused, looking over the dishes, a good portion of every single one left. Stiles can’t really stop a bit of the affection that trickles down their shared bond, Void acknowledging it with barely a hum.

„Dinner. Got inspiration, so I made something new.”

„Is it... Asian?”

„Mhm, Japanese. Delicious, really, and good for the heart. You should dig in, I’m mostly done, haven’t eaten since the morning, y’know, just had to make it.”

He ends it with a shrug, relishing last pieces of _inarizushi_ still on their plate, as the sheriff blinks at his son, then sighs and goes to put away his belt, before coming back to the table. Stiles can’t help the fond exasperation and worry at seeing his dad so exhausted, clearly gone the whole day without much food, as he promptly starts filling up his plate after eyeing the dishes for a second and deciding they must be good enough.

The connection thrums, satisfied, content, full of something too close to affection to feel safe, as Void licks his fingers, slowly, an image that makes a little thrill run down Stiles’ spine, which _how is it even possible_ , but then he hums, a low sound resounding, echoing in their chest, and Stiles can physically feel him drawing away, back to the comforting weight in his mind, to the shadows pulsing under his rune.

 _My little fox_ , he murmurs, a raspy sound sliding down his body, liquid hot, y _ou’ve truly outdone yourself._

Heat raises on Stiles' cheeks, spreads down his neck, and he licks his lips, trying to ignore the thrill tickling at his nerves. Instead he focuses on his dad, happily digging in, and his heart swells a little.

„So, do you like it?”

„It’s good,” his dad sounds vaguely surprised by the discovery, „very good, actually. Did you really spend the whole day making it?”

„Yup,” he pops the _p_ , meeting his dad’s exasperation with a sheepish smile. „You know how I get, had to make it before I could eat. But I’m full now, really, don’t worry, dig in.”

The sheriff holds his gaze for a while longer, before relenting with a sigh to continue eating. Stiles’ smile stays, small, fond, as he watches his dad and asks about his day, what’s going on in the station. Somewhere around that time he feels cool fingers curling around his shoulders, firmer than normally, but he can barely wonder the why when they dig into his muscles, press on his neck, gentle, firm, and he has to hold back a relieved sigh as his shadow works out the knots, smooths over any tension with practiced ease. When all of his neck and shoulders get the treatment, Stiles lets the presence prod him into leaning on the table, then the touch works down his back, slowly, methodically, until he feels like putty, pliant and wholly relaxed under Void’s careful attention.

It’s thanks if he ever got one, the kind of affection, fondness simmering low in the shadows of their shared bond making his heart skip a few beats. And at the end of the day Stiles decides it was worth it; promises, himself, to repeat it, someday in the future. Shadows pulse in sync with his heart. Content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took the names of the dishes partly from other fics I've read and some I just googled, so I hope I didn't mess anything up too much - if I did, please let me know and I'll fix it up right away ^^
> 
> As always you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - lately I post a lot of sneak peeks and snippets from my other Voiles AUs, so definitely check it out if it's your thing ^^
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! What do you think? Stiles' peaceful break is coming to an end, any prediction coming forward? I'd love to read them! ^^ All the love ❤


	10. something else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, an early update, can you believe it?! I'm shocked too, lmao. Hope you'll enjoy this one!

Lydia’s party marks the end of the school year, as much a celebration of the oncoming freedom as of the quiet and calm that settled over Beacon Hills in the last few months. They were all alive, well and happy to get some time off – soon all of them would drift their own ways to meet between one thing or another, keep in touch as they decompressed from the stress and enjoyed themselves before everything eventually would go to shit. Because it would, it will, inevitably, Stiles can feel it in his very bones, nipping at his muscles from the inside-out, the thrum in his veins both a warning and impatience.

It’s getting harder and harder, keeping it under wraps, covering up what’s really going on with the tattoos steadily growing on his body. He hides them when he can, but sometimes even Stiles gets too hot or too fed up, or just can’t be bothered enough, so few steps into the party he ties the plaid loosely around his hips, tugging at his plain gray t-shirt, and mostly ignores the looks he receives. It’s not exactly new though – lacrosse, track and boys’ locker room seen to that, but still – he can feel the eyes following him, interested girls and guys glancing at him as he passes to get something to drink.

The tattoos cover his whole left arm and shoulder now, some edges peeking through the loose collar of his shirt. Roots and vines and ancient spirals that stretch around every other rune, connecting them together – they're supposed to ground him, help control the power surging through his body. It _is_ helping, most of the time, and looks – _well_ , it looks quite hot, if he can say so himself. Surprisingly enough, Stiles is starting to like his reflection a bit more, covered in his own designs as he is.

_Told you, little fox, ink suits you._

Acknowledging the words with only a slight, amused huff, Stiles grabs himself a beer and starts to make his way through the party. He came in late, after getting a bit lost with his tree-design, so there’s a lot of people everywhere – the night's hot, the air dry, and Stiles is already tired before he even spent an hour there, a small bead of sweat trickling down his spine. As he tugs at his shirt again, Scott and Kira catch his attention on the patio, a really out of place looking Liam beside them, so he comes over – still on edge about how frail the bonds feel, but pushing the thought aside. It’s one of the party’s purposes, anyway, to meet up all together before they’re inevitably off to their own things through summer.

„Stiles!” Scott and Kira greet him in unison, twin big smiles on their faces, and Stiles can’t quite help his own.

„We were starting to think you wouldn’t come,” Scott adds when he finally stops beside them.

„Nah, Lydia would have my head if I didn’t show up.”

„And you’re completely right,” says the queen herself, sauntering past to some other guests, throwing him a wink for a good measure. „You need to have some fun for once in a while, Stiles!”

„Excuse you, I’m always having lots of fun!” He sends her a grin of his own, some of the tension easing, and turns back to others.

„So, what kept you?” Kira is all enthusiasm and adorableness, as per usual.

A spark of irritation trickles down the bond, but it’s much, much less intense than it would’ve been few months ago and Stiles counts it as an absolute win, letting a smile stretch his lips.

„Well, working on my back tattoo, as always.”

„Dude, I can’t believe you have so much ink, I still remember you fainting in that shop!”

„You fainted?” Liam looks dubious, following the lines up Stiles’ forearms and peeking out of his shirt and, yeah, that doesn’t make it easier to believe.

„Yeah, good old times,” he sighs, sips on his beer. „I may actually be able to finish the thing before summer ends.”

„And when are you going to show us?”

„I dunno, man-”

„C’mon, dude, you’ve been talking about it for months and only Lydia saw it, no fair!”

„Yes, _no fair_ , Stiles.” Kira backs up Scott, because of course she would.

Thankfully, Liam stays quiet, watching the exchange in slight confusion and looking terribly adorable, _like a puppy._ Good thing no bitter feelings come from the connection at the thought, only a light-colored amusement, so Stiles pays it no mind. Liam does seem quiet and withdrawn, but he chalks it up to the fact Mason couldn't come and Liam still hasn't told him anything. Probably still hung up on that, then.

Stiles sighs, trying to buy himself some time by sipping on the beer. It’s not like he doesn’t want to show it off, because the design looks absolutely amazing, yet...

„It just doesn’t feel right,” he says, finally. „I’m sorry, I’ll show you when it’s done and on my back, deal? I promise it’s amazing and will look fucking fantastic!”

Scott deflates a bit, but Kira doesn’t lose her enthusiasm and soon they’re speculating on what exactly he’s working on and why it’s taking him so long to finish it. Lydia pops in for a second to add they’ve changed the design few weeks ago and now he’s also reworking what he already had, and all of them groan in frustration as he smiles on, just sipping on his beer and content to listen. Somewhere along the way Liam asks why he needed to redesign, so Stiles decides to show them because at least that part doesn’t make him squirm and unwilling to share.

There are four symbols on the line of his spine, every almost the size of Lydia’s palm, drawn in the color associated with every chakra, first at the base of his spine and the fourth a little below the line of his shoulder blades. All of them and the three left would be spaced out regularly, with the last right under the nape of his neck, making it wholly visible, but he saw the design already – it was beautiful and vibrant and pulled at him in with something ancient, with wisdom and knowledge and peace – so Stiles wasn’t much worried. Getting them on, though, was quite different.

Not the painting and burning them down into his skin, but the hours of semi-meditation before, trying to get familiar with the energy, with its flow and feel, each time unique to the symbol; the intent, so to speak. But, surprisingly enough, Stiles found it relaxing, easier to focus on than he thought possible, what with how he always had too much energy, squirmed and couldn’t stay still – Void chalked it up to his magic, content to finally be used freely, and Stiles was starting to agree. The crackle of power in his veins both quieted down and grew each session he took to familiarize himself with his own energy. Which was also one of the reasons why he wouldn’t be putting the tree-design on himself too quickly – he barely understood and controlled what resided in him, to connect with the world... It was just too soon.

And as he lifts the back of his shirt to show off the symbols, his friends gasp in almost perfect unison. Someone passing by behind them does too – soon Stiles will hear the gossip all over the party, but he doesn’t much care.

„They’re beautiful!” Kira squeals and he can feel her getting closer to look, as Scott and Liam murmur their agreement.

„And you can definitely see they’re done by Lydia,” Scott adds, in a somewhat proud voice.

„Yeah, she’s done a great job with them.”

Stiles lets his shirt fall into place and turns back around, already getting a round of questions in his face from an enthusiastic Kira. So he answers, as much as he can, what they mean, what’s their purpose, they share a laugh about him meditating, then the conversation tapers off into something else. Liam seems to relax enough to join in, and Malia shows up sometime later. It’s easy and familiar, overall quite nice, so Stiles lets them talk as he tunes out, letting it turn into background chatter, and watches over the party getting into full swing, booming music and dancing teenagers all over the place. Soon enough their calm corner would be undoubtedly swarmed with the enthusiastic, cheering crowd, a tension building in the air that's almost palpable.

It still takes Stiles longer than it should to notice. Only when his beer is all gone already and he finally stops to just soak it in does the constant, growing thrill of sensations start raising goosebumps along his skin.

Happiness, carefree and young, permeates the air, tingling along his tongue as he inhales – light and airy and warm. But– Underneath it something different swirls and coils, headier, heavier, pooling heat in his gut. The magic hums in his veins, intrigued, rushing just a tad bit livelier, and prompting him to straighten and look for the source.

„Guys, I’m going to refill, be right back,” he throws behind his shoulder, already walking in the direction of the house – affirming calls drowning in the music.

Wisps of that unrecognized feeling draw him into the living room, where it lingers heavy in the air, much heavier than in the open air – _potent_ and sweet _,_ so sweet it’s almost too sweet, dark and weighted with passion, The scent of it goes right to his head, a little shot of fresh ecstasy right to his spine, spreading down his body with a crackling shiver that fries at his nerves. It wakes something deep inside, something hot and shivery stirring in his gut that makes his blood sing and want _more._ What is _that_?!

A quiet chuckle resounds in his head, amusement mixed with a specific kind of sinful intent. Stiles shudders, unable to stop it.

_You’re starting to feel more than only pain and strife, little fox, a... different kind of chaos, if you will._

The words half register, low and dark, as Stiles licks his lips and tries to follow the wisps of sensation to some source, some...

Lydia made it specifically clear there’s no funny business allowed in her house – making out in the corners, sure, go ahead, but any empty rooms were off-limits and anything more would warrant someone saying goodbye to the rest of the party. Still, there are pairs eating their faces and groping all over, permeating the air with their fresh lust, their teenage enthusiasm, the desire hanging heavy among the carefree giddiness. It stirs uncomfortably in Stiles gut, goes into his head with an intoxicating kind of feeling that makes him a little unstable on his feet. _Shit._ He ducks into the kitchen both to refill and escape at least some of it.

_You can feed on it?_

It makes some kind of sense, but it also doesn’t really feel like it’s making him stronger – his blood thrums quicker and eager, yes, but he’s also pretty sure he got somewhat drunk on it. Which was really no good, no good at all.

_I eat what others feel, Stiles, it just so happens that pain and chaos give me the most power,_ Void explains calmly, but the connection is tingling, thrilled in a heated, potent way. It’s quite a bit terrifying that Stiles just wants to drown himself in it – which is exactly why he pushes it aside, to the back of his mind, and focuses on the new information.

_So what lust gives you? A high, you get drunk on it?_

Not really knowing what to do with himself, Stiles drinks the beer and desperately tries to steady his hands that started to _shake_ for some fucking reason. Slightly unsteady, Stiles leans on the kitchen counter from where he has a good view of the living room and some part of the patio. There’s another chuckle coming down their bond, coiling tighter the ball of _something_ down low from Stiles’ navel.

_In a way. It’s almost as good as pain, isn’t it?_ The demon's voice is a purr, low and downright dirty, not at all helping to quiet down whatever reared its head in Stiles’ steadily more shivery insides. _I’d say it’s a different kind of power, wouldn’t you, little fox? Sex is its very own chaos. I must say, feels quite enjoyable.  
_

And there’s that cool phantom body against him, somehow, Stiles can see it just behind his closed eyelids – the way he’d press all the way to his back, a distinct impression of fingers curling around his hips, that pale, shadowed face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deep and long, burying in his shoulder, trailing his throat with just the exact amount of sharpness to make him swallow down a groan.

_Can you feel it too, kitten?_

The words are pressed against his ear, obscenely breathy, hoarse with wicked intent, and the way it makes his whole body tremble is downright _wrecking_ Stiles, hot and dirty, and _perfect_.

_Don’t–_

And it’s so weak, so fragile, a whimper almost as Stiles fights against the image, against his very own body and mind, because the way his rune pulses, the shadows writhe in and around him, it’s too much, but it’s also _not enough_ – and that, that _scares_ him. He’s not ready, absolutely and completely out of his depth, this is, it’s not–

All the ghostly touch disperses, leaving behind the cold absence that is in no way relieving – only wakes an aching disappointment in Stiles’ chest, a bone-deep longing, but at least he can somehow focus again. Pack all of that into another tiny box, chuck it among the mountain of other same boxes and inhale a deep, wavering breath, ignoring the deathly quiet connection with everything it does and doesn’t possibly imply. It’s a party, dammit, he came to relax, not despair over his own damn mind and all its issues.

Gulping down the beer, Stiles refills his cup yet again and that’s when a small commotion at the entrance catches his attention. He sees Lydia briefly, coming to welcome the new guests with a frown, so that’s enough of a prompt to make him follow into the fairly empty hall. And stop right there in quiet shock.

Brett’s there, few of his pals in tow, a lazy smile on his lips.

„Hey, Lydia, heard your parties are quite legendary, mind the company?” he greets, all nonchalance and no-fucks-given attitude like it’s exactly the place he’s meant to be. The audacity of the guy, honestly.

Though Stiles has to admit the easy, calm confidence the wolf exudes is a welcome change to the heavy atmosphere, helping to clear Stiles’ mind just a little bit more – for that he can be thankful. Just in his own head, because no way in hell he’d admit that out loud.

Lydia narrows her eyes at the guests, sharp and calculating, so Stiles has to give Brett points for not yielding under it – Lydia’s a force to be reckoned with. After a few seconds of evaluating, she seems to deem them good enough to stay.

„Don’t cause trouble and you’re welcome,” she says finally, before pointing a finger, gaze hard. „No sex allowed in this house, no fights and no railing up my friends, do we understand each other?”

„Sure, I come in peace,” Brett shrugs, then presents a bag full of... something, „and I bare gifts. Your more _demanding_ friends may get a kick out of it.” His smile stretches, a quite handsome expression, and it's laughably easy to guess what he means.

„ _God_ , perfect, exactly what I needed.” Lydia sighs, and Stiles is momentarily proud of the thick sarcasm, but she gestures them to go ahead. „Just don’t make them too drunk, we don’t need more problems.”

Then she’s out and back to the party, passing him with a reassuring smile, like she somehow feels how off-balance he is, but also knows he can handle himself, for now. That’s when Brett’s eyes find Stiles – though he’s sure the wolf noticed him the second he showed up – and look him up and down, _slowly,_ with something shining in that blue gaze that makes Stiles slightly uneasy.

„Hey, Stiles,” he says, coming closer to stop just beside him, maybe a bit closer than necessary, and his friends go right inside the house, leaving them practically alone. For a second Stiles wonders what Brett would want with him. Besides the supernatural business and lacrosse, they have absolutely nothing in common, but then he notices how Brett’s eyes follow from his neck, down to his arm and... ahh, yes, that. „Didn’t know you’re one for tattoos.” His voice is easy, lazy as his whole persona, but there’s... there’s something more to his tone.

Stiles can't help but frown a bit.

„Yeah, wasn’t a year ago.”

„You made them all in one year?” Brett’s one eyebrow raises, but before Stiles can answer, there are hands on his arm, one holding his forearm, the other tracing the patterns. Wait, _what_ – „Training to be an emissary?”

_Right_ , the supernatural business, of course. Brett’s a born wolf after all, from a good, established pack, so he probably knows more about these kinds of things than any of them, of course he saw the tattoos for what they are right away. Still, there’s something to his gaze, to the way his nonchalance gets slightly shifted...

„Something like that, but I’m pretty sure for now Deaton fills that role.” Stiles bites at his lips, watching Brett trace the patterns up his forearm, but when he starts lifting the slave of his shirt higher up his upper arm, Stiles decides that’s quite enough of that. „Okay, ease off, dude. You always come in on others that strong?”

He shakes off the hold, then his arm, some sort of tingles left from Brett’s big palms running all over the ink, and that’s not something he wants to think about.

„Only when I see something interesting,” is Brett’s easy answer, made quite pointed with the smile again stretching on his face. It’s almost... _suggestive_. What even– 

_This one’s cute,_ Void murmurs, a low, sharp edge to his voice despite the words, _but I’m not exactly liking his interest._

„And my ink is oh so interesting you just had to touch it all over?” Stiles makes sure it drips with sarcasm – Brett’s not deterred in the slightest – and tries his best to ignore the bitterness that flared up his chest at Void’s first words, then just heated him up more with the next.

_Jealous?_ He tries, means for it to be teasing but doesn’t quite succeed.

_Would you like me to be?_ Void teases right back, making Stiles suppress a shudder, but then gets serious again. _I don’t like that he recognized your tattoos so quickly. And that he wanted to see more of them. He’s suspecting something and that’s no good._

Alright, that’s– that may be alarming.

„You just stopped me from touching it _all over,_ ” Brett answers, the two conversations going on simultaneously making for quite a whiplash and slowing down Stiles’ understanding just that bit to not catch on right away. „But I’d be more than happy to. I’m sure you hide more ink there, don’t you?”

Something close to half-irritation, half-exasperation goes down their connection as Stiles fully realizes what Brett’s just implying with that little smirk and fucking sparkling blue eyes, and, like, he must be kidding, right? Or he’s saying it just because of the tattoos.

„Yeah, sure you’d be,” and there’s even more sarcasm there, because no way someone like Brett would really be interested in someone like him, „I could show you, but I’m not taking off my shirt in the middle of a party.”

„It’s not exactly the middle, I don’t see anyone here.” Brett makes a show of looking around, then shrugs, turns back to him with a weird mix of smugness and teasing.

„Dude,” why must his words fail him now, „not that I’m complaining, but wouldn’t your pals be like, I don’t know, betrayed you’re just itching for an enemy?”

Not that he thinks it’s even remotely what Brett wants and Stiles is honestly just tired of that whole lacrosse rivalry – he stopped caring about it long ago – but he might as well try and play along, see what this madness is about. The thrum of his connection doesn’t exactly help, but Void’s only quietly observing and not letting much through, so Stiles trudges forward, watching the easy confidence of the wolf before him. This dude.

„No one has to know,” is his answer, coupled with that starting to be infuriating smile.

And that’s just... Stiles is lost for words, this time for real, his mouth most probably hanging open as he tries to decode this guy. What’s he even on about?

_Oh, he is implying exactly what you think, Stiles, he’d take you to an empty room if you wanted._ Void’s words drip with poison and that’s even more shocking than the revelation, than the way the heavy rasp wakes goosebumps along his skin. _I’m sure he could give you good time alright, but he wouldn’t live up, Stiles, he’s got no idea how to really satisfy you._

And it’s those exact words that wake a whole body shiver that shakes Stiles with how it coils the tension deep in his gut and _fucking fuck_ , that’s not helping! Brett’s a wolf and by the way his gaze flickers over him, Stiles is sure he must exude some low-grade arousal now in the chemo-signals or other shit. Not. Helping.

„No way, this is Lydia’s party, she’d have my neck and I like it intact,” he says finally, shaking his head to clear it at least somewhat. „But I’m sure you’ll find plenty of others more than happy to do whatever.”

„Shame, but the offer stands.” Brett shrugs, like it’s no big deal, while Stiles gapes, then he just throws his arm around Stiles’ shoulders as if they’re buddies or something. „Now, show me to the kitchen, I have drinks to make.”

For a second Stiles considers protesting, the weight of Brett’s arm not that bothering, but also throwing him off a little, then just resigns himself to whatever’s happening. So he leads him to the kitchen while thinking back to where his conversation with Void first broke off, because–

_Could he know?_

For all intents and purposes, there’s no real way Brett could guess what Stiles is, yet–

_I don’t think so. He may suspect you’re just more magic than normal. Spark’s are too rare to be a first guess of anyone, unless his alpha is someone old and with a lot of knowledge._

And that, that makes Stiles stop in his tracks, fortunately already in the kitchen with Brett mixing drinks – yeah, small amount of wolfsbane there, makes sense – because the alpha...

Void growls, a sound that echoes and rattles in Stiles’ chest.

_Of course it’s that filthy mutt, I should’ve known she’d be here too._

Sensitive topic, abort, abort–

Stiles eyes the concoction Brett’s making, thinking about his friends, how Scott will be sure to try it out and how Malia probably shouldn’t even touch, then there’s–

„Don’t give any of that to Liam.” Brett arches one eyebrow at him, finishing himself a full cup of whatever wolfsbane spiked drink he made. „Seriously, you being here is probably already enough to set him off, I don’t want any drama.”

„I have no intention of giving Dunbar anything,” he says, flat, then sips on his drink. „I’m leaving it here, so if he wants, he can get it himself.”

So Stiles glares, but Brett’s wholly unimpressed with the force of his stare, which must be non-existent, apparently, as the wolf looks him over lazily, leaning against the counter in that constant relaxed aura he has going.

„You’re something else, you know?” He adds, out of nowhere, making Stiles’ heart speed up a bit. „I don’t think I noticed before, but there’s something about you...”

That’s not where Stiles imagined this night, this whole conversation going. Is it all some kind of hallucination? He’s almost tempted to count his fingers, but Brett’s are in full view and he’s got no problem seeing the correct number. The hell is going on with this party–

„Like what? You into skinny and sarcastic now or something?”

„Or something.” Brett chuckles, sips his beer as he's watching him above the rim of the red cup. „And you’re not that skinny, not anymore, anyway.”

_That_ Stiles ignores, because it implies Brett noticed more than he should by any means, and guys like him don’t notice guys like Stiles, period.

_I don’t know, darling, I’d say you’re more than worth noticing._

_Shut up._

„Well, thanks, if you could avoid any drama, that’d be great,” he says to that, because nothing else comes to mind. „Don’t know about you, but I’ve been quite enjoying the last no-supernatural-disaster-happening months.”

Brett makes a considering noise in the back of his throat, nodding along.

„I get that, it’s been blissfully quiet for some time. No complaining here.”

Stiles agrees, whole-heartedly, but the thought always brings with it that nervous, dreadful anticipation as of lately, the magic in his veins crackling in not at all pleasant way, all at once foreboding. Some of that must’ve bled through to his scent, because Brett’s demeanor shifts and his gaze turns more serious.

„Stiles, everything alright?”

His head shakes the tiniest bit as he worries at his lip, tries to banish the coil of nerves in his chest – a cool, soothing presence smooths it over, but it’s not wholly gone even then.

„Yeah, sure, it’s just... I don’t think it’ll last.”

Brett watches him, attentive, a very different expression to every single one Stiles saw, and that makes him a bit more nervous. It’s like Brett tries to see something more, like he’s _suspecting_ , but then he shrugs and turns back to his cup.

„Nothing lasts in this town.”

„It’s not that-” And Stiles should learn to shut up for once in his life. Brett’s back to his careful watching right away.

„What is it?” He even leans closer, like he’s worried or something. „Stiles, is it just a normal conclusion or is it _a feeling_?”

It sounds surprisingly serious, the way he words it, which is a bit shocking in and on itself, but also somehow untangles Stiles tongue into spilling probably too much.

„It’s not _just_ a feeling,” the magic in his veins thrums in agreement, uneasy, anticipating, _eager_ , „I fucking know something’s about to go down.”

„Well, is it going down now?”

Stiles blinks, looks at Brett – the lazy, nonchalant one again – and thinks for a second. The dread is there, sure, it’s also steadily growing every day, but it’s still far enough so he can ignore it most of the time. He huffs, feeling a smile raising despite himself.

„No, not this second.”

„Good.” Brett nods, decisively, and pushes himself off the counter. „It’s a party, let’s go and mingle.”

And Stiles can’t protest that, so he refills his empty cup again – probably will need to slow down on that for appearance's sake – then follows Brett into the living room. He means to leave him there to his pals and go straight to the patio, to look for his friends again, but he runs into them as they enter the house as well. Liam’s not anywhere in sight, apparently went home already, and somehow they all end up on the couches with Brett yet again, Scott entirely too happy about the wolfsbane concoction.

Stiles resigns himself to his perch on the couch’s arm, sipping beer and trying to not let that heady, intoxicating sensation go into his head. He’s really reconsidering the advantages of supernatural senses.

_You’ll get more used to it. This is the first time you’re feeling it, after all._

The thing is, though, even if Stiles believes him – it _should_ get easier, like with the energy buzzing in his body – it’s still getting to him now. The longer the party goes on and the more people start to make out everywhere around, halfway to wasted as they are, the more its scent, the lingering heady feeling of lust surrounding Stiles from practically everywhere and clinging to his skin makes goosebumps rise all over his skin. He tries to banish it with the bitter taste of beer, but it doesn’t work.

His eyes are inevitably drawn to the people on the patio, dancing around the pool, close to the big columns drumming with music; carefree, lust-driven, moving together in a sort of trance, like nothing else much matters in the moment – and something deep in Stiles _wants_ that, wants to know how it would feel to get in the middle. Distantly, he can recognize the pinpricks of awareness, of someone looking at him – as he turns, he’s met with Brett’s blue eyes and slightly raised brows,as if he’s teasing him, _daring him_ to do something. What does the guy even want?

_Now? I’d say he’s quite eager to get_ you _, little fox._

Void’s rasp coils heat in his chest, pulsing in sync with his heart, but Stiles looks Brett over with furrowed brows, trying to gauge him – and the guy just fucking _winks_ at him. Pointedly turning back around Stiles goes back to staring at the dancing people, some girls making out without even stopping to get somewhere else. Not that he can blame them, the way his whole body thrums makes him think he wouldn’t be opposed to some of that too. The thought brings back a ghostly half-impression of touch, of heat all over, of teeth and licks and gripping hands, blurry images of dream-memories he’s banishing as soon as they try to catch his attention. The connection tugs, his shadow’s irritation coming through even as he masks it with a sneer.

_Would you want him, Stiles? Would you let him have you?_

Stiles shivers, hopes no one saw it, and takes a long gulp of bitter beer, trying to ignore how his whole body's strung up with delicious tension that simmers hot in his belly. It’s both an accusation and a growl, the way Void frames it, almost as if he was right behind him, watching Brett, whispering filth in Stiles’ ear as he tries to ignore his own reactions. And they’re growing, piling up, yet giving Stiles enough of a drunk sort of courage as he responds:

_I thought you said he couldn’t satisfy me._

_Because he couldn’t, he can’t._

_How would you know that?_

Void chuckles, a far more pleased sound than it has any right to be, and yet–

_Oh, Stiles, I’m in your head, I know exactly what you need._ Void's voice is a smooth purr, a dark rasp that’s deliberately sinful, making Stiles bite hard on his own lip in a poor substitute of what he truly craves for. _I could make you feel real good, little fox, so good. Would you like that, Stiles? Would you let me?_

The groan tears at Stiles throat, but he traps it there and doesn’t dare to make a sound, teeth almost cutting clean through his lip. The scent gets even heavier, tingling on the tip of his tongue, sweet and spicy.

_I don’t even know what I like._

At least mostly, his experience extremely limited, not that he had the time or need to experiment. And as long as he was with Malia, that's no base for anything. They’ve both been looking for a convenient distraction, figuring things out – it’s been fun, sure, even playful, but it always felt like something was missing, like that wasn’t what he truly wanted. An indescribable itch that couldn’t be scratched settled under his skin. And he never much thought about it – the possible answer seemed too easy to reach, too terrifying in its magnitude.

Void's cool presence presses closer, plasters itself to his back, an impression of hands smoothing down his sides.

_I could show you_ , he offers, the words dripping down his heated skin like warm honey.

Stiles swallows, fighting down the blush trying to creep on his face.

_I know._

And he does – believes Void, believes in his words and what lies behind them. Void must be so much more experienced – because sex truly is its own chaos, or at least a way to spread it, and even though all that months ago as he got a first glimpse into his mind the demon didn't seem interested in the carnal pleasure, he must have been at some point in his long existence. And thinking about that–

Stiles is not sure if it's that making him flush anymore or is it the smallest possibility that Void's desire could be pointed at _him_.

Void laughs, the sound pressed just behind his ear, breathy and dirty.

_Oh my sweet little fox, I could devour you whole._

The way he says it, weighted with the most filthy promise, slides down his spine liquid hot.

_And I would enjoy every second._

Stiles has to press his lips together, swallow around a moan trying to escape, as Void purrs it against the sensitive skin right behind his jaw.

The thing is – he almost believes that too. That he could make him feel so good, so right, yes, that one he believes alright, but that it's about _him_ , about _Stiles_ – that's what he can’t believe. Because he is just– him. Stiles. Never the first option, never the one to be wanted for who he is, never enough. And not without reason – he may have just started liking his reflection a little more, the tattoos a really fine addition, but he's still just a mole-dotted pale guy with a tendency to space out and spew any bullshit that spills down his tongue, always more on the sarcastic, hurtful side than anything else, pushing away anyone that comes too close. All in all, nothing special. He may be somehow insanely powerful, but that was just that – power, magic, what else has he to offer?

Refusing to go down that spiral, Stiles clenches his teeth, the heavy beat of his heart dropped all the way down into his stomach. His insides are burning, but his chest feels so, so heavy.

The presence shifts around him. Void breathes in one last time, a long inhale rushing against his neck, before his touch travels and long fingers curl in Stiles' hair.

_You're overthinking_ , Void huffs, all at once irritated, _stop it._

And he tugs on the strands between his fingers strong enough to tilt Stiles’ head back. He barely holds back a gasp, sharp shiver slicing up his spine like a hot blade.

_It's a party, darling, try to enjoy yourself._

Familiar playfulness is back in Void's voice and the grip lessens, light enough to become just a background comfort.

Stiles takes a long breath, trying to vanish all those thoughts that just run through his head, and turns back to his friends. Joining in the conversation, just to give his brain something else to focus on, he ignores both the cool impression still around him and Brett's gaze watching him intently. Torn in-between, Stiles can't help but dread what's going to come out of it - even if, deep, deep down inside, the pooling heat only thrills in eagerness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like something is coming, huh? You guys have any guesses? ;D This is actually a part one, of sorts. I wrote this and the next as one chapter, but it got so long I decided to split it - so this is kind of a set up, but I think it works well on its own too ^^ What do you think? I'd love to read it!
> 
> As always you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - lots of behind-the-scene over there! 
> 
> Also, can you tell I really like Brett? He grew so much on me from all the fanfics I've read and now Briles is definitely one of my crackships, lmao. Hope I did him right and y'all enjoyed this update! All the love ❤


	11. something more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let it be said that every longfic of mine needs a dance scene, lmao. Anyway! I'm super excited and super nervous about this chapter. Enjoy!

Slowly sipping his beer, Stiles observes the party getting into full swing as the night drags on. The air grows ever thicker all around the partying teens and he tries to ignore the heady feeling filtering right to his very brain, but the conversation going beside him is not exactly helpful. With both Scott and Brett there, sitting on opposite couches and getting themselves drunk on wolfsbane, the topic of the dreaded sport was sure to surface. As if everything in Beacon Hills circled around Lacrosse.

Refusing the biggest eye roll of the night, Stiles shares a glance with Kira – she’s properly amused, but also enjoys playing, so he doesn’t blame her for joining in instead of indulging his own frustrations. They’re currently revving something about potential and disappointment and he’s got enough of that rivalry bullshit already, yet it catches Stiles’ attention enough for him to turn and catch the matter-of-fact yet somehow bewildered look on Brett’s face.

„Scott, playing against you is a pain in the ass. You can’t even score properly.”

„We’re not that bad!”

„Are you kidding me? You have not one, but _two_ werewolves on the team, a kitsune, magic-Stiles here–” Stiles starts so badly he almost spills the beer all over himself, but Brett’s undeterred, “–and you’re still _hopeless._ ”

„Woah, hey, when did I become a part of that sentence?” He rights himself and his cup, frowning into the wolf’s direction. „In case you didn’t notice, I’m _shit_ at Lacrosse, magic or not. And before you say it – it’d be _cheating_ anyway, so I’m not using it, and you should know something about that.”

It’s why none of them use any supernaturally granted bonuses when playing – Brett does the same, of course, but he still rolls his eyes as if Stiles said something silly.

„You did get better recently,” Scott adds, smiling up at him with that puppy-dog smile.

„What he said.” Brett points at Scott, beer dangerously tipped with the move, and speaks right over Stiles’ scoff. „I saw your practice. If you’re not first line next year, then the team’s full of even bigger idiots than I thought.”

And Stiles can only stare in response, lips parted with quiet astonishment – the night’s proving to get weirder and weirder the longer it lasts. Why does Brett fucking Talbot talks about him like that? And looks at him with that lazy grin? The fuck is going on?

The compliment is, of course, nice, but Stiles is so not equipped to deal with anything positive pointed his way, _especially_ coming from too pretty for their own good wolves – or other evil bastards he’s _not_ thinking about – so he ends up blurting out the first thought that comes to mind, which is:

„Actually, I wanted to quit.”

„ _What_?!”

Stiles is almost affronted at the perfect unison of not only Scott and Brett, but also Kira – the traitor. The protests raise up immediately, but Stiles has half a mind to just bolt right then and there, not even trying to listen.

A low hum sounds in his head then, echoing in little thrills around the shadows in his chest.

_The dance floor does look inviting, doesn't it?_

And Stiles’ eyes zero-in on the teens again, swaying and jumping and grinding together in joyful abandon, their laughter flowing up with the sweet, sweet spicy heat. It almost hurts, the way it tugs at his chest – even his blood rushes just that bit quicker, pulsing in rhythm to the music, to the heady feeling filling up his lungs.

_Well, what will it be, kitten? Yes or no?_

The voice is a smooth, breathy caress, a siren’s call in the dark, and Stiles finds himself powerless to deny it.

When he stands up abruptly, beer abandoned beside the couch, the conversation – arguing, really – cuts short with few surprised and confused stares; and one intrigued.

„Stiles, where are you going?”

He catches Lydia’s gaze across the room, talking with Danny, and she gives him a knowing smile – and a little wink to top it off. So Stiles grins back.

„I’ve had enough of your bullshit obsession with that bullshit game,” he announces, entirely too delighted at the indignant responses he talks right over. “And I feel like dancing, weirdly enough. Don’t ogle me too much.” The last part is a joke, of course, but for whatever reason, as he turns to go, his gaze flicks over to Brett, the wolf’s eyes already following his moves.

Telling himself it doesn't mean anything, Stiles swallows thickly and ignores it – ignores Brett, ignores the way the shadows in his chest squirm, eager, and goes right up to the makeshift dance floor. He weaves between people until he’s right in the middle, the whole group swaying loosely together – there’s enough space to consider everything pretty tame, but that’s only a passing thought as the assault of _hot, heady, passionate_ goes right into Stiles’ head. A shot of pure ecstasy, like a drug hit right into his bloodstream, it makes him gasp for air, for the way it slides over his tongue, sweet and tingling, the way it seeps into his skin, through his muscles, coiling potent and squirmy in his gut. An unbidden smile stretches on his lips and before he knows it, he’s swaying in sync with the music, with its pull and push, with the pulse of lust, desire, carefree abandon that sings through his veins and thrums in his head. And even though he was never much of a dancer, it doesn’t even matter, his body knows what to do. He moves together with the flow, liquidy and free, letting go of everything that has shackled him up to this very moment until there’s nothing more but the music, the heat of bodies and the beat all around and all inside. The group around him tightens, coming impossibly closer, some kind of bliss-inducing, sinful haze taking over minds and reducing to writhing limbs, to the rhythm of pulsing blood and panting breaths.

Stiles inhales with his whole being, savoring the taste, the scent, the hot shivery tingle down his spine. The sensations throw him completely off-balance and yet keep him completely steady in the swaying motion. It’s intoxicating, the feel of it so, so powerful, getting so strong, so heavy, Stiles barely registers someone curling around him – they’re all so close together, so interwoven now, all brushing up against each other, and Stiles is as much in the middle of it as he is detached, on his own cloud of bliss – but with that sensation comes another that makes him shudder and lean back. It’s that cool, phantom touch he craves so much it hurts, digging into his hips, pressing against his back. Solid and strong, matching his movement exactly, pull to push, push to pull, a delicious friction that tears a breathless gasp out of Stiles raw bitten lips. It nuzzles against his neck, taking in air in a long, drawn-out inhale as if trying to memorize the very essence of his scent, crowding and building against Stiles’ back, closer, _more_ , Stiles wants so much more–

He’s never felt this good – in the world, in his own skin, in the feel of heat pooling at his core – this in sync with everything, with _himself_. It makes him arch into the ghostly caress, search for that pulse in his chest, for the heated rune on his skin, wish, more than anything, that–

„Damn, Stiles, if I knew you’re so into it, I’d ask for a dance much earlier.”

The illusion shatters, dispersing with the cool phantom like it was never there and leaving only fire licking at his nerves; the world crashes back in, tilted on its axis wrong and out of order. Stiles isn’t even sure what exactly happened, but it all falls apart around him, right before his eyes. The blood in his veins goes cold, filled with pent up desire and buzzing magic with no way out. Brett’s still pressed to him, even as the group loosens, seemingly waking up back to normal, but Stiles tenses up at the warm body behind him. It’s not right, nothing of this is right.

„You just had to ruin it,” he mutters, to himself or to Brett, has no idea; something fierce and hot and piercing goes through his chest, blurring the surroundings just enough to be noticeable.

„What, you expected someone else?” Brett’s voice is playful, joking, he curls closer around Stiles–

And that vicious, aching feeling sizes Stiles’ lungs so sudden and hard he’s ripping himself out of the wolf’s embrace before any of them can blink.

„Stiles?”

He’s pushing out of the crowd of people still dancing, out of the partying teens around, to the front of the house where it’s empty, quiet, at least somewhat calm, with the alarmed voice following him, but Stiles spares it no mind. Grabbing at his shirt, right above the inky black rune, he twists it into a fist and presses over the heated symbol, a familiar enough warmth that allows some kind of anchor to take place, to focus on. Still, he’s barely calmed down a tiniest bit before he can feel Brett stopping behind him.

„Stiles, what is it? What’s happening?”

With a small startle, Stiles realizes Brett’s reading even more into his freak out – so he’s definitely suspecting something – but that revelation is somehow enough to throw Stiles’ frustration-filled panic attack off its rails. He doesn’t even notice the angry tears clinging to his eyelashes.

„Nothing, it’s... nothing.” Taking a long, drawn-out breath, he turns his side to Brett, but won’t face him, _can’t_. „Sorry for freaking out on you, it’s just– I was kinda lost there–”

„Hey, no worries, it’s all good, happens.” Brett shrugs, the gesture almost, _almost_ self-deprecating. „My bad for reading it wrong and I’m sorry for that, I wouldn’t otherwise.”

„No, that’s not– I mean, kinda, but–” A long, whining kind of irritated noise leaves Stiles. At least it makes the famous Brett-smile come back. „Look, it’s at least half my fault, I wasn’t really being clear... or much sane tonight, for the matter.”

„Yeah, you should’ve seen how it looked from the outside,” Brett chuckles, but some undercurrent of wonder tinges his voice, „I swear, the second you joined that dancing? I was barely able to get to you, like every single one of them wanted to be closer.”

„Well... that’s weird.”

Stiles’ heart thuds against his ribs, harder than before, weighted with what possibly it could mean – did he do it? Getting in the middle of it, did he somehow intensify it all? He fed on it, that he was sure of, but could he make it even more potent? That’s–

„Kinda hot, too. And, for what it’s worth, I really enjoyed it and would like another one, if you want,” Brett offers, a light shrug on his shoulders and eyes gleaming in the dark, playful. For some reason, it doesn’t sit right with Stiles.

„Yeah, sure.” His eyes roll as he huffs, the sarcastic edge cutting on his own tongue. Brett frowns.

„What’s that supposed to mean?”

There’s a goal there Stiles can’t see, can’t decipher, and the previous anger builds right back up.

„Look, I’ve seen how you were studying my tattoos, you have some agenda and, I mean, I can’t blame you, I’d be the same, probably. But I’m also used to people wanting something from me, not me for me, you getting it? So, I see what’s going on and I’m telling you now – it’s not happening.”

It’s hard to name what exactly comes over Stiles – it aches deep in his bone, seizes his lungs in a painful grip and freezes over his heart. The thought of going with Brett to wake up alone again is curdling in his throat with acidic fury – to lay his heart open, to offer the magic at his fingertips, then fall down from the edge and break into pieces when there’s no one to catch him.

Stiles is working himself up to an irrational panic-attack, fully aware of it but powerless to stop it, but Brett throws him off again.

„What are you even talking about?” It’s half-exasperation, half-amusement, like he can’t quite decide what Stiles is even on about. „Yeah, okay, I’m interested in the ink, sure. But, Stiles, you’re a catch. I’d go for that dance anyway.”

The silence stretches after that, the music and cheering a background noise to the way Stiles tries to wrap his head around what he just heard.

„Yeah, I don’t believe you.” Though it is a nice thought.

„Shame, I mean it.” Brett shrugs, and shockingly - it does sound sincere. „And my offer still stands.”

„The dance or the...”

„Both.”

Stiles’ brow furrow again, at the way his face heats up, just a little, at Brett’s easy, confident smile, his lazy, calm aura that’s really a nice change from the heavy air of the party. Still, he’s not sure he believes the wolf, but... it doesn’t sound mocking or playing or anything, so–

„Uh, sure, I’ll remember...”

The smile on Brett’s face widens, morphs into something more pleased, the emotion trickling along Stiles’ senses, but not leaving much impression, then he’s gesturing to the house.

„You plan on getting back?”

Stiles is shaking his head ‘no’ before Brett can finish. The tug in his chest is insistent, his magic thrums, oversensitive and overeager, and he needs to calm down not rail himself up even more.

„I don’t think I should go back there.” He swallows, promising himself to shoot his friends a text where he’s gone. „I’ll head back home.”

Blue eyes look him over, more attentive and careful than they should be under the lazy content.

„You need a ride?”

Stiles huffs out a slight laugh.

„Not that you could give me one. But no, thanks. Go back to your wolfsbane drinks before Scott dries your stash out.”

For a second Brett looks like he wants to stay, to ask something more, but it disappears quickly and then he just nods, giving a little „sure” and wishing Stiles a light, easy goodnight with one last parting wink, because of course he would. So Stiles waits until Brett’s out of sight and collapses on the edge of the sidewalk, typing the messages, then sending them out – thinks, for a long moment, if he should text his dad, who somehow agreed to pick him up, but the crackling in his veins is mounting to be unbearable already. Lydia’s house isn’t that far from his, but it’s still a considerable distance, yet–

Gathering himself up, Stiles starts walking along the sidewalk, trying to re-purpose the energy spilling over into his steps, into the earth, the air around him, breath it out, calm it from the inside. It doesn’t work as well as he’d like it to, but the simple act of moving helps - takes the worst edge off, chipping on the overbearing power and dispersing the smallest amounts every few minutes as he calms down. But it’s not the only thing making Stiles’ heart race.

The connection went deathly quiet somewhere around Brett ruining the illusion and the way it still rings hollow grinds on Stiles’ nerves. Void’s hiding again, keeping their bond mostly closed – giving him time and _space_ , of course, so he can cool off and decide what to do about the mess of a situation, but Stiles finds it more upsetting than calming, the way he instantly misses his shadow’s presence. Because the thing is – Stiles started to enjoy the way their connection worked, the way it was open, sincere, feelings and impressions going back and forth. It wasn’t in any way fully open, no, but he could clearly tell when Void was being honest and _present_ with him as opposed to when he’s withdrawn, barely even there on the edge of his senses. And it’s not like Stiles didn’t enjoy himself, didn’t enjoy the situation, that weird dance, however it happened, didn’t _want_ it to continue, to drown in the sensations it brought, the ease with which it settled deep in Stiles’ body and mind. The moment was perfect while it lasted.

Taking a long breath, Stiles watches the shadows stretching on the street – it’s late enough so most houses are already dark, the streetlamps washing the night in soft light, barely any cars moving past. It’s soft and peaceful and Stiles lets himself soak it up, chasing away the agitation still present in his blood, thrumming along to his heartbeat. His chest expands, squirming with the abyss hollow and empty, calling out for what he’s missing. And it’s almost painful how much he misses the presence, the cool phantom touch, the almost physical waves of comfort, it scares him – both with how used to it he got and how it could end. It’s that thought, that fearful thrill of the possibility that he’ll be alone again, completely alone, the memory of a time before his shadow’s rune, of how desperate and on edge and utterly _lonely_ he felt back then, that make him focus on the barely-there wisps of Void’s impression, tug on his end of the connection, pull it to himself, open himself up–

A cool chill runs down Stiles’ spine, announcing Void’s back in their bond, shedding off all the cloaking at his very request. Surprisingly enough, the demon seems to be on edge, still withdrawn but in that careful, attentive way, searching Stiles’ feelings.

_Are you mad?_

Stiles expels a long breath, shaking off the tension that rose up in his shoulders.

_No._ It’s true, he’s not – he’s tired, worn, even with magic still acting up. _It’s alright, mostly, but... Did you use Brett for that?_

_Partly,_ his voice is flat, forced into a calm and steady tone, _but he was telling the truth, if you wonder. He would go after you anyway._

_So you just seized an occasion._

Void doesn’t answer, but the tense silence is telling, making Stiles rigid – then he stops with a frown, standing in the middle of the sidewalk between one lamp and another as something close to disbelief washes over him.

_Were you honestly jealous?_

Again, there’s no answer, though it might be one as well. And Stiles is reeling, the shock mixing with something fierce and burning in his chest, right under the rune – around his heart the darkness pulses with a potent kind of energy. Stiles wets his lips and starts walking again, hands shoved down the pockets of his jeans.

_I’m not mad,_ he relents finally, welcoming the way the presence seems somehow easier now. _And you know I wouldn’t go with him._

_I know... Was I out of line? Did you not want it?_

The memory flashes then, bright and vibrant, heated with desire, weighted down with passion and unity and an easiness that Stiles has never felt before.

_You know I did._ He swallows thickly, tries to banish the echoes of sensations. _And you know I wanted more._

That’s the closest he’s ever got to admitting what is hiding, lurking in the darkest corners of his mind and soul, squirming in the abyss between his ribs – what he ignores so vehemently. Their connection thrums, pulled taut.

_And you know I’d give you everything, little fox,_ Void purrs, unusually gentle even when it’s weighted with potent sincerity - it rings almost like a promise and Stiles can’t help how he shivers in response. _Still, I was out of line,_ the demon insists, but it’s flat and close to dismissive – more like trying to ease Stiles out of his overthinking than honestly looking for agreement. But Stiles is tired, he won’t fight on that one.

_Sure, whatever, just... don’t, there’s no reason to be._

No one wants Stiles, not in any way that’d matter, and Stiles can’t really spark any interest or desire to look for anything, _anyone_. As surprising as he finds that revelation, Stiles feels content where he is, all the terrifying implications aside. Yet–

Maybe it’s not _that_ kind of jealousy – as much as it makes something weirdly fierce and painful spike in Stiles’ chest – because why would it be? Void’s flirting all the time and enjoys making him squirm, but that doesn’t have to mean anything. The demon was always possessive, even that first time as he chose Stiles as his host.

They lapse into easy silence after that and their connection radiates steady warmth, so Stiles breathes a little easier. Until his phone chimes, a text from his dad checking in – because of course he forgot. It’s getting more early than late, but he’s got only a few minutes left of his walk, so he only texts back that he’ll be home in a moment. And when he gets there, the sheriff is already gearing for a very early shift, waiting for him in the kitchen.

„You walked the whole way?” he asks right as Stiles steps in, worry and exasperation both evident in his dad’s tone and face.

„Yeah, sorry, just... my magic was kinda acting up, I had to calm it down somehow. A walk seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Noah visibly debates with himself if it warrants a lecture, all the things he already told Stiles time and time again, before he relents with a sigh.

„But you’re feeling alright now?”

„Yeah, yeah, I think I’ll just go to sleep.”

„Good, do that, and I’ll see you in the evening?”

Stiles forces a small smile, murmuring his assent, then promptly goes to take a quick, hot shower, before he collapses practically boneless into bed. His magic has settled some, thank god, so maybe he’d be able to sleep the rest of the night, maybe even some time into the day if he’s lucky. As soon as he tucks himself in, nuzzling into the pillow, as it starts to get a bit too hot under the blankets, he tugs at the thread in his chest, probably harder than necessary, but it gets the message across.

The phantom coolness slips under the covers, around his mostly naked body, engulfs him almost completely, thorough and at ease, soothing yet waking a budding, fierce warmth in-between Stiles’ ribs. There’s a wish, an impossible want nipping at the edges of his consciousness, but he banishes it right away. Instead, Stiles leans fully into the presence, exhales a long breath and lets it pull him under, into the dark, blissfully blank sleep.

✦✧✦✧

It’s a dream.

Stiles is acutely aware of that fact – he doesn’t even have to count his fingers – but that doesn’t in any way take away from how _real_ it feels.

He watches, perspective somehow removed, as his friends go about their days, drifting, no words exchanged, no looks shared, going through the motions like ghosts, everything both too blurry and too sharp at the same time, sort of emptiness encompassing his chest, a hollowness where the bonds should be, even as fragile and thin as they were, but there’s nothing, not even an echo, it doesn’t even _hurt._ The desperation that overwhelms him is different, though, when he tries reaching into the darkness around his heart, for a connection, a pulse in sync with his frantic heart, a tug of understanding, but he can’t grasp it, he can’t, he’s alone, so alone, his voice drowns in static, Scott brushes past him without a look, Malia walks away into the distance, Lydia’s sitting down with eyes empty and unseeing– What’s happening, why no one sees him, no one hears him – his chest pulses, painfully out of sync, and it _hurts_ , because there’s _nothing there,_ he _can’t–_

Strong arms circle his waist from behind, hot breath against his neck, and Stiles’ heart almost stops.

„Hush, little fox,” a voice says in his ear, low and warm, rolling over Stiles’ body in a way that makes him quite possibly melt, „I’m here.”

His vision is blurry as he turns, meets his shadow’s dark eyes, his own face looking back at him, but so much different that it’s not, not really. The shadows in his chest scream, writhe, and Stiles surges right into Void, clutching at his shoulders like he’d disappear any second – and the demon welcomes him, pulls him closer, brings their foreheads together until their breaths mix, until Stiles can match the rhythm with his own. The abyss around his heart tears him apart– It’s _not enough_ , not nearly enough, but Stiles is paralyzed, trapped in a limbo, like anything he’d do will shatter everything around.

„I can’t–” It’s a sob, almost, leaving on a hitched breath.

One hand reaches to his face, fingers curling around his jaw, grazing at the nape of his head and Stiles shivers, leans into the solid body _–_

„It’s alright, Stiles,” Void murmurs, brushes their noses together, „it’s alright, I’m patient, you don’t have to do anything.”

Oh, but he _wants_ to, yearns for it so viciously he’s shaking with it, afraid of any smallest move, of being _wrong_ , because how could this even be real – he was never wanted this way, never desired so completely and accepted so fully. It can’t be real, his brain is playing a trick on him, luring him into a fantasy so sweet and heady Stiles loses his footing. There’s no way it isn’t just his wishful thinking, so he can’t, he can’t do anything, but what if it is, what if he’s not wrong and it slips away, because he didn’t fucking do _anything_.

The arm around his waist firms, pulls him even closer, flush against the solid line of Void’s body as he maneuvers Stiles' face slightly to do side – exposing his throat, he brushes their cheeks together in a gesture so intimate it flames Stiles’ chest with a fierce, all-encompassing longing that’s _painful_.

„You think too much, little fox,” he chides, but it’s light, _fond_ – inhales in a long breath like he wants to memorize Stiles’ scent, „all you need is ask, Stiles, and it’s all yours.”

Stiles trembles, whine sounding low in his throat, but as he tries to wind his arms tighter around Void’s shoulders, the demon is ripped away from him, just like that.

Snarls and growls fill the air as Void’s dragged away, but he stays silent, eyes never leaving Stiles – it’s Scott and Malia bringing the fox down, claws tearing at the flesh, eyes shining.

“NO! Wait!”

Stiles tries to go after them and immediately crashes into some invisible wall – he pounds his fists on it, fingers sparking in bright golden, but it _doesn’t work_ and the chasm in his chest weeps.

„I’m sorry, Stiles,” Scott says, puppy-dog, bleeding eyes and sharp teeth, „he’s tricking you again, I can’t let that happen.”

“NO! Stop! _Stop--_ ”

Desperation threatens to drown Stiles as he screams his throat raw, as he begs in a voice that doesn’t come through, falling on deaf ears, and he can’t look away, he _can’t_ , because Void’s keeping his gaze even as he’s brought down to his knees, as Scott sinks teeth in his arm, even as Kira shows up and sears a sword right through the demon’s chest.

No _,_ no _, no, NO–_

Stiles rages, clawing and tearing and pounding on the glass until his fingers are coated in something warm and sticky, smearing hot and crimson, but it’s _not working_ , nothing’s working, there’s nothing in his chest, nothing in his veins, he’s empty and weak and as Void crashes to the ground Stiles can’t look away. And so he watches – the shining midnight gaze hardening into cold obsidian, pale skin cracking and breaking and–

Stiles collapses right as Void’s skin crumbles, dust falling away, the only thing visible right until there’s no more to see being those black, soulless eyes, and when the demon’s no more but ash tears roll down Stiles’ face, salty and scorching on his skin. The abyss in his chest wails in empty protest, in a desperate call, but Stiles can only stare, carved and hollowed out, a shell that threatens to fall into bits and pieces.

Voices fill the air, a buzz unrecognizable to Stiles’ ears as he looks, unseeing, at the space where he saw his shadow disappear, die, _again_ – and he’s alone now, _alone,_ in his head, in his mind, in his very soul, there’s nothing, absolutely nothing there–

Something vicious, a poison burning hot through his bones, through muscles and veins and skin alike, awakens in the echoing darkness. It tears and breaks and takes him apart as his teeth grind together, as his eyes leak with tears, as he sees the skin cracking before his eyes, as the ghost of a touch disappears like it was never there to begin with, it’s starting to fill him up, to spill over the edges, a liquid hot fire.

A hand lands on his arm, Scott’s, and Stiles _crumbles–_

The scream he lets out is inhumane, a sound of desperation and loss and vengeance, one that seems to come from his very core, from years and years and _years_ of ache, one that sweeps off everything in his path and spreads into a wildfire that alights the world and turns it into ashes.

_Stiles–_

It goes and goes and Stiles can’t stop, can’t break it, _doesn’t want_ to break it – _no_ , Stiles curls on himself as he lets it pour out, and out, and out, like the hollow emptiness is too full of destruction that never ends–

_Stiles!_

It turns into sobs, ugly and painfully raw in his throat, wracking his whole body as the world burns and falls apart and–

_STILES!_

And Stiles gasps in air, blinking his eyes open to, to–

Void’s holding his shoulders, looking him over with vicious eyes, an expression on his face that has no right to belong to the demon, but Stiles doesn’t care.

„ _Void_ –” It almost chokes him, a punch racking through his body, and Stiles is throwing himself into Void’s arms before he can think about anything else.

It’s desperate and crushing and it’s still the dream-clearing, but that doesn’t matter, it feels real at the moment – the way Void welcomes him in, winds strong arms around his waist and lets Stiles bury himself in the demon’s chest, in the cool presence that somehow warms him up inside, lets him sob on his shoulder, trembling and ugly-crying, and it’s almost too much, almost spirals him into more tears, more of that pain in his chest that can’t be turned into anything, can’t be taken, one he needs to endure, but one that takes him apart just as easily as the way Void’s hands run over his back, slow, deliberate, intimate. The demon is silent, but his breath is heavy on Stiles’ hair, cheek pressed to his head and his touch insistent. Almost like the one Stiles yearns for so much.

Before he knows it, Void’s gathered him into his lap on the Nemeton, curling around him protectively, _possessively_ , with shadows half-tangible hugging Stiles from all sides, a cool caress of painful familiarity.

Stiles chokes on a pitiful whine. He’s shaking as he hides his face in Void’s neck, trying to get even closer, though it’s not possible if not for merging them completely together, but he needs the touch, needs it as he needs air to breathe, and the relief at how Void seems to know it perfectly well – fingers carding through Stiles’ hair, hand smoothing down his spine, his lower back, caress alternating between massaging and just petting – is just as strong as the desperation. 

There’s no way he can express anything of the storm raging in his heart, but Void only tightens his hold.

„I can’t–”

Stiles tries, he really tries, but it’s too much like the nightmare, too much–

„I know,” the demon soothes, barely above a whisper, as he brushes his face against Stiles’, breaths him in. „I know, little one, nothing wrong in that.”

Stiles hitches in a sob, shuts his eyes even tighter, clutching at Void’s black hoodie, soft under his fingers, so soft. He’s such a fucking mess–

„I’m sorry–”

„Don’t be.” It’s firmer now, serious, an almost dangerous undertone to that raspy voice making him shudder, but then the fingers curl gently under his jaw and he melts at the touch. Void doesn’t try to make him look up, just brushes the falling tears away. „I’m the one that hurt you before, Stiles, and I should’ve known better than that,” he confesses, voice back to that low, barely audible tone that makes little shivers dance along Stiles’ spine. „I should’ve done it properly.”

Stiles almost wants to ask what he’s speaking about, even though he suspects, suspected for some time – but he’s not ready to hear it, not ready to face the possibility of being wrong. And Void seems to know that, too, presses a barely-there kiss against Stiles’ jaw that draws a wounded whimper out of his chest.

„I won’t hurt you again, never again,” he says then, vicious and bordering on a growl, „I won’t let _anyone_ hurt you, Stiles, not if I can help it, not if I can do _anything about it_ , I’d destroy anyone that _tries_ , Stiles, I–”

_„Don’t_.”

A shiver runs down his spine, the clear intent in Void’s voice not leaving any doubt about what he wanted to say next – and the demon seems surprised Stiles prevented him from doing just that. But it’s not what he wants, he knows what it means, and it’s not–

With a small amount of shock Stiles finds he’s not crying anymore, he’s not falling apart on the inside, in fact the shadows seem to curl and mend all around and inside him. He’s still trembling and his breath wavers, but the tears have stopped, the chasm in his chest doesn’t try to swallow him instead reaching out for the fierce, burning-bright sensation flowing steadily down their connection – a steady, deep warmth underneath.

It’s not a small effort, but Stiles manages to straighten, to look at Void – who’s watching him intently, searching for a reason why, _why_ would he stop him. Anyone would want to hear that, anyone would want that certainty, but Stiles isn’t anyone, it’s not what he _wants–_

„Don’t,” he repeats, licks at his parched lips, fingers curling tighter in Void’s hoodie, „don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

His breath is already ragged and his heart only skips more beats at the way Void looks at him, just in this moment – like he sees everything he ever wanted, doesn’t exactly believe he really _sees_ it, but is absolutely ready to raze the world to the ground for it, for even a chance. The way Stiles’ chest expands and breaks and calls out just about crushes him.

„ _Stiles–_ ”

It leaves on a breath, so low, so dark, a hoarse rasp that wakes a whine in Stiles' chest, makes him lean up just as Void’s fingers tip his head higher, closer, brushes their noses together, thumb running over Stiles’ lower lip. The midnight eyes looking down at him are fierce and sharp and absolutely ravenous.

„Tell me you want it–”

Stiles surges up just as the thumb falls to his chin and they crash together, vicious in the ferocity of their kiss that _burns,_ through his whole body and right into his head. Void bites his way into Stiles' mouth, claims with a growl that makes him shudder and mewl and absolutely melt into an embrace that should be uncomfortably tight but it’s _perfect_ , and he wants more, so, so much more, because it’s not enough, not _nearly_ enough _._

Not even when Void’s teeth catch on his lips and draw blood, when he licks into his mouth and over his tongue and dominates so wholly and undeniably that Stiles doesn’t want it to ever end. Gives and gives and gives, as much as he has, surrendering nothing and everything in one breath with the moan that slips his throat and drowns in Void’s snarl, in the press of their bodies and the hunger of their lips, in the heady, unique brand of scent filling his nose, in the way it tastes, bitter and sweet and heavy, liquid hot. It’s dizzying and intoxicating and Stiles can already tell it’s going to be the end of him as he’s being pulled impossibly closer, wants more even when it feels like too much. Because he wants more, so much more, so much so that it’s terrifying, but at the same time he doesn’t want this to ever stop.

Fingers clutch and pull in his hair, dig into the meat of his hip as his own claw at Void's shoulders. Stiles plasters himself as close as humanly possible, to every curve and hard edge, painting Void’s lips with his whimpers and drinking in that small growls right from his tongue. He’s raw and bruised and really starting to get dizzy, his vision swims even with closed eyes, he’s short of breath and–

They break away gasping, trembling; sharp, wrecked pants mixing together as Void keeps them still, one hand at Stiles nape, their foreheads pressed together, the other firmly around his back, not letting anything escalate anywhere further though the demon seems to vibrate with the effort not to do just that. Why, though, why would he stop when Stiles is more than eager to feel it all over him, to let the demon do anything and everything, even with the small ball of panic somewhere between his ribs, because it’s perfect and what he _wants_ – but his mind is already waking up from the haze, screaming down at him with doubts and fears and life-long thoughts of _not enough_ –

„Stop it,” Void says, forcing his voice to steady firmness instead of a sneer, „don’t overthink it, Stiles, let it be, let it go.”

So Stiles exhales a long, quivering breath, and tries, really tries to banish the nerves chipping away his near-bliss, but it’s not exactly working, he can’t–

„Stiles, look at me.” It’s so calm, so commanding, Stiles can’t really do anything else than listen, meeting the heavy gaze right on. It softens almost in the same second, fingers brushing away the leftover, dried tears. „I told you I won’t do anything you don’t want. I meant it, I do, nothing will happen if you don’t want it.”

He would promise, Stiles can see it, can feel it, along the pulsing thread in his chest – it’s all but already made in the way their connection flares up. If Stiles asked, Void would promise, without hesitation. But he won’t.

„Okay. I believe you.”

And he does. He really does. Maybe it’ll come back to bite him in the ass, it most probably will, but in this moment he doesn’t care and his mind shuts up, for once, as he leans back into the solid embrace, tucks himself into Void, who only hugs him closer, holds him firm and solid and warm even though his skin is cooler than his own, but it doesn’t matter. Stiles curls up, nuzzles into Void’s neck, winds his arms around his shadow’s waist, and inhales a rich, heavy scent that fogs up his brain in a lazy haze, soothing over the nerves buzzing under his skin and banishing every last wisp of the nightmare. It’s still a dream, but it feels more real than anything he experienced lately, and Stiles wouldn’t exactly mind if he didn’t wake up this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo... thoughts? ^^ I crave reactions, they fuel me and my inspiration, so please don't hesitate! 
> 
> Also, fun fact: the last part wasn't planned. I just wanted a nightmare and Void comforting Stiles. Then this happened. And I had no heart to cut it out. So now it's worked into the story, oops ;p
> 
> As always you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - lots of behind-the-scene over there! Hope you enjoyed this update! All the love ❤


	12. storm on the horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a dream comes the reality, how Stiles will take it? Let's see! Hope y'all will enjoy this update ^^

Stiles comes to with heavy limbs and brain fogged up in bliss, covers tucked around him snug and perfect, like a warm embrace. Distant memory of a dream edges on his mind, trickles over his nerves with sweetness and he presses a smile into his pillow. His body feels languid, his parted lips tingle as if oversensitive and Stiles thinks there’s something missing – a body, a different breath mingled with his, a kiss–

Heart slamming against ribs, Stiles tenses, the reality rushing back in. _A kiss_. They _kissed_ , for fuck’s sake, and even though it all happened in that weird dream-scape, it felt _real_.

He shudders with the memory – hands grabbing at his sides, cradling him in an almost too tight embrace, growls on his tongue, mouth pressed to his own, kissing, biting, licking in–

Stiles whines into his pillow and his fists clench uselessly at the sheets. Everything’s too vivid, too close, too real to seem like anything but truth. They’ve kissed and there’s no way around it, Stiles was aware of everything if not exactly sane, shaken from the nightmare and– and–

Cold dread settles low in his belly, spreading frost up, up, over his lungs until breathing becomes a task and he fights to keep in control, to not drown in the impending panic.

_It doesn’t mean anything_ , he tries convincing himself, even when the words gut him open, _it doesn’t_ have _to mean anything._

Scrambling to his feet, he stumbles to the bathroom. Ignoring the hard heat in his groin and getting under the hottest spray he can safely withstand, Stiles tries not to think, not to wonder, but it proves impossible.

He fucked up.

Like with everything. Sooner or later he always fucks up. It wasn’t supposed to happen, _not like that–_

Clenching his jaw until it hurts, Stiles doesn’t even notice the stray tears leaking down his face, melting together with hot droplets of water. Even though they feel nothing like the phantom touch he got used to, the rivulets leave shivers all along his body, almost the caress he’s so desperate for. And he is, so fucking desperate.

Soaping himself up is a fight with the part of his consciousness that wants nothing else but get dressed, take the jeep and go straight to the Animal Clinic, to the box hidden behind wards and trapping the one he longs for. But as much as it’s everything Stiles yearns for right now, the fear is stronger. Because _what if–_

What if he’s just getting used? What if it’s all a ruse? A play? A clever trick to gain the demon’s freedom back and rain hell again or– or– _leave_ , tear his heart apart with a laugh and never even look back. What if it’s _not real?_

His hands curl against the tiles as Stiles just stands there, trembling with everything he can’t process. The kiss plays on repeat behind his eyelids and he’s flushed all the way down and up – both from the memory and hot water – yet the abyss around his heart feels heavy, cold. What is he supposed to do now?

There’s no way to go forward, no way that wouldn’t, inevitably, leave him alone, all alone again, with nothing but his own misery for company and horrible regret to drown in. Or maybe, maybe he could–

It hurts, it hurts like ripping himself apart again, but finally Stiles gathers that memory, that dream – every word, every breath, every touch and press and moan – and then reaches for his magic, for the insistent, agitated burn in his veins, to tie it up, to lock it all up in a tight, black as night box to never be opened again and leave in the farthest corner of his mind. He covers it up and up and up, in layers upon layers of containment, draws in all the other dreams, all the fever and touches and whispered promises that _weren’t real_ , until he can almost pretend none of it happened. Until he almost doesn’t remember.

When it’s finished, the box sits heavy at the back of his mind, like an itch begging to be scratched, but Stiles refuses it vehemently. The sensation will lessen with time, _it has to._

All the laziness and warmth from the morning is gone by the time he dries himself out and faces the mirror, an almost haunted, tired look in dulled amber eyes looking back at him. So he ignores that too, hangs his head and takes long, steadying breaths that do nothing for the dreadful mood. And when the tell-tale tingle along the bond and down his spine runs hot through his veins, Stiles presses his eyes closed – the first touch sears through him anyway.

The embrace that twines around his waist is both cool in sensation and warm in the way it spreads under his skin, a hot brush just under the nape of his head making him tremble.

_Stiles…_

Void’s voice is a low rumble, a lewd purr just behind his ear and Stiles can’t help but tense up as he swallows down a traitorous gasp. And it doesn’t go unnoticed.

The presence halts, quiet and unmoving as Stiles waits with bated breath, the connection ringing hollow and wary, so painfully different from the usual openness and inviting warmth that it feels like it's carving Stiles’ insides out, like it’s going to break, he can’t stand it, he can’t–

_I see._

And the touch retreats, disperses around him like mist on wind, voice distant and echoing and so clearly forced to stay calm Stiles’ heart skips a terrified beat. With the way their bond is tightened and rigid it’s easy to tell Void’s all but cutting off–

“ _Wait_!”

Stiles spins around as if he could see the ghost of presence he became so used to but – nothing’s there, of course. Void’s still trapped and still only in his head and the reality hurts more than it has any right to. But his attention stops on Stiles again, an equivalent of raised brow and cold gaze. And Stiles falters…

“I…” What is he even supposed to say? He’s fucked up yet again and there’s no way to fix it and he doesn’t know what to say except what he fears. “Don’t– Don’t go...” his voice trembles, barely above whisper, and the frantic beat of his heart is the only sound cutting through the following silence.

A moment later a light rush of a sigh comes down the bond and the relief it causes to follow makes Stiles so weak in the knees he almost misses Void’s next words.

_“And where else would I go?”_

They are spoken in a low tone, without bite or any easily recognizable emotion, but feel weighted with something Stiles is afraid to even touch, trembling and off-balance as he is, and there’s no answer he could give.

So he wrings his fingers, bites the inside of his cheek and scrambles for something to say.

“Will you– uh, could you help me? With the tattoo?”

Cringing internally, Stiles tries not to show how anxious for an answer he is, but it’s probably a futile attempt – Void always reads him so easily. Despite that their connection stays quiet for so long Stiles is starting to worry Void did leave right then and there, then–

_“What do you need?”_

And this time the relief is even sharper. Stiles makes his way back to the bedroom, all the while the presence lurks close, but never once touching him – and Stiles tries to tell himself it’s okay. It’s as it should be. But no amount of false words can cover up how the abyss in his chest rings hollow. Empty.

It would stay that way for months to come.

✦✧✦✧

By the end of the summer Stiles’ tree tattoo design is practically finished, his chakra symbols are done – the last one, a deep purple, sits proudly at the base of his neck – and his magic has mostly settled. Somewhere along the way his daily runs and workouts turned to semi-meditation, sweating out the excess energy from his acting up power while he sorted out the energy buzzing in his body – and to his great surprise, it was going quite well. At least, sans the dread always lurking on the edges of his more supernatural senses, the inevitability that something’s coming and he can’t stop it, that it will shatter the world as they know it.

After weeks of the feeling not subsiding, it becomes clear that his magic is warning Stiles. Of what, they had no way of knowing, so it only served to agitate them further in the precarious balance achieved after the dream-disaster, a sort of backwards dynamic to what they used to have not even months ago. Mostly the same and yet not at all.

On the surface, nothing has _really_ changed. But if only Stiles allowed himself to look, the differences were jarringly obvious.

Void almost never touched him anymore, not in the way Stiles got used to – an almost physical contact, an impression of hands and body – it retreated all the way back to the beginning, barely a brush of air, cool and in no way tangible. And even then so rare every single time caught Stiles with his breath stuck somewhere in his lungs, unable to process the onslaught of thoughts and emotions. Their connection dulled to a low thrum as if Void was constantly hiding most of himself away, a thin veil over the true nature of the bond. The only saving grace left for Stiles stayed deep into the night, as he was lying curled in his bed and aching for what he shouldn’t – the cool impression would trickle over him slowly then, a hesitant kind of barely-there embrace. Never acknowledged as much as the dream.

Almost as if it never even happened, the way they refuse – _Stiles refuses –_ to go back to it, and yet it was clearly the catalyst for everything. But even pushed back and ignored and all but trapped deep, deep in Stiles’ mind, it’s impossible to get rid of everything that came with _the kiss._ It lurked on the edges of his senses, an impression, a phantom memory; the smallest tingle over his lips, a little shivery-hot sensation. It curled under his ribs, left a low simmering current in his blood, always a bit more aware of Void, of his cool presence shifting, of the way their connection pulsed even when covered up, warmth and want and yearning, never addressed.

But otherwise everything stayed the same. Void never brought it up and Stiles didn’t dare to, even as the fierce ball of something lodged in-between his lungs threatened to drown him, both with how much he longed and how truly afraid he felt. Because no one wants Stiles for him, just for him, and he’s so terrified he’s going to burn himself again. From this, though, he would never recover.

And as the thoughts creep up on him, from time to time, Stiles does everything to banish them right away. It’s quite a stupid effort, Void must’ve glimpsed them anyway, but he also never pried, never confirmed or denied, waiting until Stiles reached a breaking point where he would, finally, _ask._ And that day would come, inevitably, probably soon – as strung tight and tense as Stiles was – but for now he does what he’s best at and ignores the problem. Especially because something is coming and they need to be prepared.

It’s the day of Senior Scribe and it’s full moon, of course, because why not, when the dread becomes practically unbearable, flowing with agitated, crackling magic through his veins. They’ve chained Liam to the tree, again, which is really not the way to go, they _need_ to find a better way to help the kid, and Stiles’ obvious nerves aren’t helping in keeping the young wolf in control, he can’t really help himself. It’s coming, it’s going to begin this very night, there’s nothing Stiles is more sure about.

As they let Liam out of his bonds, Void’s watching with clear amusement – the feeling is a relief and if he didn’t know better, Stiles would think the demon is _fond_ of Liam.

_You know, the packs I’ve seen used full moons to prance around and enjoy it, not chained themselves up. The pup’s barely hanging on as he is._

A heavy sigh leaves Stiles then. Void sounds all too reasonable at times and some part of him agrees – even the image of the pack, together, spending the time to enjoy themselves on a full moon, sings with _right_ to his magic _._ It’s a bit surprising.

_It’s not, not really. Shifters are attracted to Sparks – where the druids would seek to destroy, they would most probably protect. It’s in their instincts._

The new bit of knowledge makes Stiles pause for a moment, frowning at how he’s only learning about it now. Not that he ever asked or even wondered about it, and as willing as Void has always been to share and teach him, the trickster wouldn’t show all the cards right away. If Stiles wanted something– wanted to _know_ something, he had to ask. A game on its own, their little back and forth. Still, it’s good to know.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Stiles speaks up – more to drown out his mind than anything else.

„Remember your mantra, Liam,” he says, gathering the chains. „It’s a _part_ of you you’re fighting, not something outside, it’s your instincts. Think about what makes you feel human, y’know, family, friends, video games, whatever, just – try to remember you’re still you.”

Both of them look at Stiles as if he just grew a second head, surprise mixed with something like wonder, like him chiming in with reasonable advice is such a shock. And even Stiles is a little bit surprised his words even make sense, yet the amusement down the connection is a wholly expected reaction – but it’s tinged with something closer, something warmer, brighter. Such a delicate undertone to it as if it wasn’t shared on purpose but slithered through on its own volition.

Stiles reels in confusion for a second, before stamping it down quickly enough to turn it into outside indignation at his friends.

„ _What_? I’m just saying.”

„No, no, it's good advice,” Scott agrees, eyes full of familiar warmth while Liam nods, all enthusiasm and smiles.

„It’s great, actually.” And promptly gets sheepish; this kid, too cute. „Thanks...”

Stiles shakes his head, shooing them inside the jeep as Void hums low in his mind.

_The pup’s unusually strong for a wolf this young, no wonder he’s struggling so much._

Again, Stiles can only agree.

As they finally get on the road, all friendly banter and quips, the agitation grows – itches at the inside of his muscles, getting harder and harder to ignore. Still, he tries – takes long breaths and imagines it expelling with the air, reaching out to the energy building up all around him as if in preparation. The jeep malfunctioning is the first thing that tips him off – it’s nothing mechanical, nothing usual, nothing _normal_. Even if his trusty car is prone to breaking down, that’s not the case this time. So he pops up the hood, trying to see what’s going on, as if the engine would just tell him straight up, and he’s too focused on searching for the reason to note the alarm in Liam’s tone – then the lightning hits and they all jump.

None of his runes alarmed him to it coming. They flared as it crashed, the sound blowing up in their eardrums, but it was too unexpected, too unnatural, too _something_ , for his magic to sense in time. The very implication freezes blood in his veins. He can’t look away from the charred spot even as he stretches out his senses, looks for more, on the earth and in the sky – that’s where he finds it, in the storm brewing on the horizon, getting closer and closer with his every breath, too fast and too strong to be normal. His shadow-rune flares, unusually cold, a small trickle of trepidation going down their connection. And _oh, that’s no good._ Void seems worried–

_Mildly curious._

The huffed tone eases some tension in Stiles’ muscles, but there’s a note of something under it – something like anticipation, like excitement or… maybe even wariness. Too fickle and too quickly gone – might have been either or all at once. And Stiles can’t tell which would be worse.

_Do you know what it is?_

They get back in Roscoe, a new kind of urgency driving Stiles to quicken their ride as he waits for Void’s answer. The car turning itself back on without any of them doing anything barely registers in the face of what’s coming, already sizzling along Stiles’ nerves and clashing against his buzzing magic.

_I have a guess, but I don’t think that’s it, this feels... different._

_You mean unnatural?_

And not in the _super_ natural way they know, that’s something Stiles is weirdly sure of – his magic violently rejecting whatever’s coming, almost _angry_ at what it can possibly be, is a reason enough.

_Yes. Do be careful, Stiles, it seems your premonitions are coming to pass._

All of the agitation and dread come to a peak just as the storm truly hits an hour later, the worst they’ve ever seen in Beacon Hills. It brightens the night with an almost blinding light, softened only by the wall of rain obscuring vision so much so it’s hard to see anything beyond their own fingers, the following thunder a boom of sound that rattles in Stiles’ very bones. He’s impossibly tense as they wait outside the school, barely manages to keep his attention on Malia as his magic surges, claws, _demands_ to be let out. The regret of allowing Scott to slip his vigil, go out for Kira, is starting to set in just when Liam shows up from nowhere with even better news. Stiles’ whole ink-covered skin burns up, the bonds just barely keeping his power in check; all the protection, vigil and cloaking runes working overbear on whatever’s making him off-kilter enough to feel in immediate threat.

It’s like that moment in Eichen forever ago, tied to the beam and warring with his own body and soul. He was alone back then, though, and now Void’s attention feels like a blade tracing just on the underside of his skin.

_You may not like the idea,_ Void starts, just as they rush to find Scott, Malia following her nose, but Stiles following the chaotic tug in his chest, _but you could try and redirect some of your energy._

The question is on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, laced in confusion, but as the connection thrums and thrills with a constant steady warmth it all at once becomes clear. And it’s almost laughably easy to grab at the thread, then at his magic going crazy, and flow some of it into their bond, little sparks glittering over the connection. The way it flares in response, hot and bright, wakes goosebumps on Stiles’ skin, but it calms the hurricane of power in his body, letting him _think_ again. Void takes it, absorbs like the abyss he is, and delights at the rush, but otherwise doesn’t react. It’s only a passing thought, but–

_Did I just... feed you?_

And, sure, he’s been visiting the hospital without an outward reason for months now, getting some pain here and there to keep the low-simmering hunger creeping to his side of the bond sated for Void, but this… this feels _different_. Important. In ways he can’t possibly fathom just then.

Stiles gets a chuckle in response, a soft and warm one that makes the shivery feeling residing in-between his lungs preen in attention. And he can’t help the flush that follows – it’s been so long, _too long_ , since he last felt Void so vividly.

_In a way, yes. I must say, it feels quite nice. Thank you, little fox, is it better now?_

It is. It really is. The revelation shakes something inside Stiles, but he can barely spare it a thought as they finally come to the scene, to Scott and Kira, a body and–

The guy is new. And apparently a were’, by the way of claws and fangs and flashing eyes, yet– In the split second Stiles’ senses have to regard him, it becomes clear the guy doesn’t feel like Scott or Liam, not even as Malia – he has the scent of a were’, as all of them do, but… Stiles’ blood buzzes, agitated, somewhat thrown off-balance with the stranger. Though, as he finally comes to light, Stiles realizes it’s not a stranger, not really. It’s–

Theo.

Theo Raeken.

The kid he used to skateboard with. Gone to little league with. They’ve been friends, even before Scott showed up – and then there were three of them, Stiles always keeping them all together. They haven’t seen each other in years. But that’s not– It’s not–

Something’s very different, very wrong about this Theo.

Stiles’ magic is still uneasy, regarding the guy with wariness, with cautious interest and an undercurrent of alarm, but Stiles looks him over and _knows_ , without its input, that’s just not the same kid he knew. Shy, enthusiastic, too easily embarrassed, practically abandoned by parents that didn’t really care – Stiles basically adopted him back then. And one day they just... left. Sure, people change, but the boy he sees now – confident, with an easy smile, a hint of smirk, fully grown into his skin, even an attractive, handsome skin, he can admit, but–

_Your interest seems to be reciprocated_.

At that, Stiles starts, finally waking up from his own mind’s wanderings to what’s happening around and, sure enough, Theo’s eyes are looking him over just as Stiles did to him. Which, fair, but there’s a spark in his gaze that itches at Stiles’ skin, an aura of curiosity, of intent around the guy that no one else seems to notice. That’s the thing, though, Stiles can only notice because of what Nogitsune’s and his magical abilities he has now, so he can’t really show what he knows, he _better_ not show it. There’s a clear agenda behind the easy facade, he’ll need to be especially careful around that one.

_Not only for those reasons, it seems, darling,_ Void purrs, brushing up against him, a barely-there ghost of hot breath at his ear, and then his voice gets a lot more growl-like. _He likes what he sees, Stiles, and he_ wants _it._

Goosebumps wake up along his skin, both at the tone, reverberating in his chest with little thrills – Stiles almost squirms under the attention, the almost-touch like a hit of a drug he’s been off from for far too long – and the words he can confirm just by letting the feelings spreading in the air seep into his skin. Desire mingles, light among the others yet distinctly dark in nature, but it’s _there_ , stirring in Stiles’ gut with interest. He squashes it in the bud, grinds his teeth and drags the pack to the school, to the Scribe they’ve come there to do, ignoring Theo and everything that’s got to do with the whole weird situation. Everyone seems to get back to normal as if nothing out of ordinary happened and Stiles forces himself to match the mood, even when his blood rushes in agitation. But, surprisingly enough, he gets help this time.

The steady flow along their bond, his magic somehow constantly running through now – just the barest amount, but enough to help Stiles keep his focus – works to ease the knots of tension, blanketing him with reassurance. It’s not much, not compared to how it used to be, but it’s still a lot more than he had these past weeks – and Void’s _there_. Stiles can’t see him, but he can _sense_ him, the impression of a body, just to the side, just close enough to leave little tingles of gooseflesh all around his skin, yet so far it feels like the hollow chasm rearing open in-between his ribs. So very, very far away.

Stiles wants to reach out, to drown himself in it and never let go but refuses those thoughts all the same. The only thing that cuts through, for just a second, are the initials written by Scott, but soon enough they move forward and Stiles lets it go. It’s in the past, he decides, and the future is a much more pressing matter. His magic has settled for now, the storm eased out, but it doesn’t mean much. Whatever came with it – it’s already here.

And Stiles wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t investigate.

His friends are too trusty – all of them beside Lydia, bless her, but she has her own problems now – too ready to give chances before even thinking about the possibility of others having less than pure intentions. They look at Stiles as if his paranoid self finally done him over, but he _knows_ he’s right – and they can’t exactly feel the way he absolutely buzzes with unhinged magic, off-balance and ready to wreck everything in his path. Even faced with the proof they don’t see what’s got him so riled up, of course it’s just a coincidence, right?

That’s why he goes to investigate and lets Liam tag along – bless the kid that trusts him so much to just follow without question, to sincerely consider his suspicions out of his own will even though he doesn’t understand. He dismisses the hole Liam fell in, although Void seems somehow intrigued by it, and focuses on Theo, on whatever he could be doing in the middle of the woods so late in the evening. But when he finally realizes what it is about, why this place, why the flowers, the shame almost covers the small trepidation, the still alive suspicion that there’s more. Because, yeah, the grief is true, he could feel it, wanted Liam to just confirm it with his werewolf senses, so different than his, but there was something under it, something very much unnerving. A veiled intent no one but a being tuned to those nuances could notice – but that’s no proof, so Stiles tries to retreat and save them the fallout. But that, of course, doesn’t work out.

They are inevitably busted and Stiles resigns himself to watch, to _listen_ to the way Theo words his responses, how he acts, looks at them, to the way his presence resides in the air. It makes him uneasy, what he says, how his gaze rests on Stiles, how the connection stays quiet, attentive, _wary_. Void seems to be with him on this one, even if he can’t exactly tell the spirit’s reasons. And as Theo’s words ring in his ears, „came back for you too”, cool touch brushes up against his side. Just that bit closer again, a little more tangible, making Stiles’ heart race in a very much unhelpful way.

_Told you_ , Void says, a low undercurrent of a growl, before smoothing to something colder, sharper. _He’s dancing around the topic, weaves his lies in truths. Clever tactic, works well enough until you notice._

And the demon would know, would recognize a wanna-be trickster from miles away, but they have nothing to work on from now so they just part ways, letting Theo slip away into the night. A quirk to the guy’s lips as his eyes pass Stiles just before he turns, a telling gesture if not wholly conscious.

The familiar dread slithers back into the shadows and singes at his nerves, sharp needles dragging through his flesh. Stiles’ mind is as much a hurricane as is the magic flowing in his veins and after that whole bizarre encounter he can’t exactly focus on anything but the frantic pulse of his agitation. Then Roscoe malfunctions yet _again_ , for another unknown reason, and he’s feeling ready to burst at the seams as it finally, just, gets to be too much.

And Scott–

Scott with his puppy-dog eyes and lopsided smile, with his black-and-white view and untarnished conscience, with his seemingly perfect morale and always good decisions. Scott that looks at him as if Stiles already failed, looks at him bewildered and amused and worried all at once, looks at him as if Stiles is a kid to be toddled, not someone whose judgment anyone should consider. And Scott asks–

“Why can’t you trust anyone?”

–as if he _doesn’t know_.

And something in Stiles just– fucking splinters apart.

“Because you trust EVERYONE!”

His voice comes out raw and roaring, heart and guts spilling in an almost growl, an almost inhumane sound. And the pain that follows is swift – violet and absolutely delicious as it runs up his arm, as he breathes in and shakes, frantically looking for any sign that he just blew something off, dented the metal, busted the engine, anything, that he let out the power with his burst of anger, but whatever uncoiled and broke through must’ve flown down the connection, getting absorbed by Void on the other side. That’s probably a reason for concern, the way he just feeds his shadow now, _just like that_ , but the thought doesn’t stay for long. Out of it, he lets Scott take his hand and too late realizes what his friend is doing, taking away all that sweet, distracting pain. He can’t show it, though, how much he hates what Scott’s doing. And he’s too tired to fight it.

The next few days pass in a blur, only easier on a marginal level because there’s nothing actually happening, but the dread stays heavy in Stiles’ stomach. A leaden weight that drags him down, that sharpens his senses on how they’re all already drifting apart. And there's Theo, too. Almost anywhere Stiles turns the guy’s there buttering up to Scott so perfectly – and the alpha eating it all up, the paper-thin conviction to be wary tearing apart into tatters without much help, like it wasn’t even there to begin with. Stiles’ magic surges in frustration every time he encounters the two. A sour, bitter feeling always follows, one that Void sneers at.

_Worthless_ , he snarls, icy under Stiles’ skin, even though both of them know the demon’s quite content to feed on the strife Theo’s presence brings.

_Doesn’t mean I don’t absolutely despise that poor imitation for a wanna-be trickster_ , Void adds then, voice laced with a disgusted grimace, before smoothing out to a drawl that always wakes shivers down Stiles’ spine. _I’d show him how it’s done. Oh, how marvelous that would be. Imagine, little fox, how much better,_ us _putting the filth where he belongs._

And Stiles would swear up and down that the thought in no way appeals to him, but he’d be laying his ass off. Because Void’s words flare the heat in his chest and his magic sings in agreement.

_And where is that?_ Stiles asks, watching Scott smile brightly at something Theo said.

Void’s mean laugh is enough of an answer.

But for the most part, Stiles is able to ignore it. Go about the days while keeping an eye out for the next big bad that’s inevitably waiting for its chance to strike. And as they stand in the sheriff's office, Stiles and Scott, his dad ready to go on a date – _a date_ – it's mostly calm.

He's trying to pry the information away, because he knows as well as Scott it can't be Melissa – which shame on them, honestly – she has a shift right now, but who else could it be? It _should_ be Melissa, they're practically brothers already, and Stiles knows with absolute certainty that if they'd only give it a chance, they'd be happy, good for each other. His friendship with Scott may be more frail than ever, but it doesn't change anything – maybe, just _maybe_ it would even help. Anyway, it's not about him, he wants his dad happy first, so he's making the sheriff properly exasperated as is Stiles’ role. He gets a bit sidetracked at his comment on Scott, though – a small spike of hurt that shouldn't be there, because they are a family of sorts already, the four of them, yet the light-hearted comment throws Stiles off-kilter.

_The son I should have had_. Not the one that chased after the supernatural wherever it went. Not the one that made the house shake with tremors and woke him up in the middle of the night screaming. Not the one that lied and sneaked off and ignored every order ever, rebellious and unruly and too much, always too much while never being enough. Not Siles. Never Stiles.

It doesn't have the time to stick, though, when there's commotion outside the office, when they step out and the slippery hold on his balance slips.

“I’m going to kill you!”

Donovan spits it out full of rage, of conviction, like he's actually able to come through with the threat, and Stiles' blood goes cold. It's a dizzying mix of sensations brewing a storm in-between his ribs. The frost in his veins, a too familiar by now dread, the magic eager to lash out and Void's quiet amusement sliding down the connection.

_Isn’t this cute?_ The demon muses as Stiles’ dad talks the guy down.

Like the situation is no more than just a little funny, not worth the nagging worry growing in Stiles’ stomach. But he can't help it – it's like the night of Senior Scribe. Yet when Donovan doesn’t stop–

“I’m not angry like I’m going to throw a brick through your window, I’m angry like I’m going to find a knife–” he says, a flaring resentment surrounding his aura as Stiles’ blood boils, “–and stab you with it until you’re _dead_.”

Void chuckles, the sound cutting and seeping crimson.

_Oh, this one thinks he’s scary, doesn’t he?_

And his absolute delight only fuels Stiles’ own anger further, the words tumbling out as he steps closer.

“Woah, I must say, those are some nice threats. I’m sure we’re all properly scared, _frightened_ even.” Stiles makes a quick show of looking around, before clocking on Donovan with his head tipped slightly to the side. And he paints the heavy, strained silence with his unique brand of sarcasm. “Well, I suppose that didn’t work, huh? But, _don’t worry_ , you’ll have plenty of time to come up with more. Y’know, as you’re _locked_ tight in a little tiny cell. Who knows, maybe you’ll even have a few… _friends_ to practice your speech to, huh?”

A cruel smile plays on the edges of his mouth, but Stiles holds it back, too riled up on his buzzing magic and reeling anger to discern if it’s his or Void’s. The words on their own are as much a distraction as they are self-defense, containment for the magic surging through his body, tension slipping out on his tongue instead of a shock-wave of power that would crush Donovan's skull. And that's almost scarier than the guy's threats coming true, the potential singing sincere – Stiles would be able to do just that.

As Donovan lunges, Stiles is already shifting on his feet, half-himself, half the freezing presence just under his skin, runes flaring to life. But Parrish holds the guy and Scott jumps in, the two of them somehow working at keeping Stiles grounded enough to back down – the look on Jordan's face and the touch of his friend on his arm. He’s distantly aware of his dad’s wary gaze, but his senses are too all over the place to focus on it – but the heat of his shadow-rune cuts through, pulsing with calm, with steady, a steely grasp that allows Stiles to breathe properly again. The bonds going up his left arm and shoulder, roots and ivy and ancient symbols merged, itch with the strain of containing the thrum in his blood.

_Easy, little fox, breathe now._

So Stiles inhales, slowly, then exhales, imagining the tension expelling itself in the air. It doesn't quite work as well as he'd like, but it's enough to get his head back from the angry haze it has fallen into. He can feel Void slipping in a little more through the connection then, examining the dread settled in the pit of Stiles' stomach as Stiles tries to fight the little shivers it elicits.

_Another premonition?_

_Yeah, I mean– maybe? I don’t know, but I don't like it._

_It'll be alright, darling, we'll keep an eye on that one._

Stiles doesn't even protest, doesn't even really mind the plural – because he _is_ going to keep an eye on Donovan. If only to check that he truly landed where he should – where he couldn't hurt his dad from.

_We'll stop him if he ever tries, Stiles, he's no match for us._

It should probably alarm him, the way Void murmurs of _them_ , of _us_ , maybe it should be terrifying even, and yet it’s all but – instead it's comforting and almost _exhilarating_ , to know the demon is always there, a steady place in the back of his mind, at the end of the bond connecting them together, closer and closer to how it used to be before Stiles fucked up.

And Stiles is fully aware of how Void uses his words, deliberately, no coincidence, no opportunity lost to bring Stiles just that bit over the edge, to make him trust just that bit more. It _should_ scare him, what with how he’s steadily flowing some of his magic down the thread into the abyss of the demon, helping even more now in keeping Void’s hunger somewhat manageable, but it _just_ doesn’t. And the rejected, dream-memory always hovers at the back of his mind, tightly packed away in a little shiny black box that rattles every time he even brushes against it – a shiver coming down his body at the thrill.

So as they find out later that Donovan’s transport was attacked, that he got away, that some really weird shit has gone down, it’s the steady reassurance coiled under his rune that keeps him together and standing beside Lydia’s unyielding presence and Scott’s warmth. It’s all falling apart around them, itching at Stiles’ ink with whispers of dread, of warning, of _you see what’s coming_ , but he can’t, doesn’t. The only thing apparent is that indeed _something_ _is_ happening and he has to uncover it as fast as possible, otherwise it’s going to be a mess they haven’t seen yet.

„Dad, you need to be careful,” he says, as Scott takes off to try and find Donovan, as his dad looks at him a bit skeptically. „I’m _serious_ , something is really not right, shit’s going to go down and I can feel it’s going to be bad, _really_ _bad._ ”

From a small distance away Lydia’s eyes peer at him closely, but he’s focused on his dad, on the frown etched on the sheriff’s forehead as he takes in the words, takes Stiles in, and considers.

„Alright, son,” he nods, claps him on the shoulder with a small smile, „I’ll be _especially_ careful.”

It has the undercurrent of teasing, but his dad isn’t writing Stiles’ concerns off wholly, so that’s good enough, at least for now. Few seconds after the sheriff leaves to talk with deputies on scene, Lydia's at his side, back straight and mouth in a thin line, leaning close.

„It’s your magic, isn’t it?” she says, very low and quiet, so he barely catches it, but her intent is clear. Stiles’ heart hammers even quicker.

„Yeah, it’s going haywire since the night of Senior Scribe,” he admits in much the same tone, looking around just for something to do with all the fidgety energy buzzing in his muscles.

Cool, familiar presence brushes against his back, solidifies against his shoulder enough to be noticeable, but not enough to stew off the burst of longing that dislodges Stiles’ very breath. Void’s quiet, yet his silence speaks plenty. And it’s enough to trap some of his focus, smoothing over the nervousness just a little.

„I’m not feeling particularly at ease too,” Lydia admits, bright green eyes following the people moving around.

They don’t have to say it aloud to know what it means. Lydia’s been getting better with recognizing her banshee senses, with tapping into them after their countless „study” sessions throughout the summer. Hopefully, it will pay off, and not only in these weird dread-premonition alarm things.

„We’ll figure it out,” he lets out on a breath, leans, just a little, into the phantom almost solid against his arm, taking in the sliver of comfort it provides. Void doesn’t move away, but doesn’t shift to offer more touch either.

Lydia nods, decisively, at his side. They’re going to get through it, together. That, at least, he can be sure of – Stiles _will_ make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, S5 finally! I've done a lot of thinking on how to approach the early episodes - as I said before, I don't much like rewriting canon scenes as they happend only for some minor thoughts, so I went with this more descriptive style and weaving in-between the scenes we already know from the show. What do you think? It's going to be a few chapters in a similar fashion before we come to some nice, drawn out, long scenes ^^ Which will also mean that the chapters will probably get longer, hope you don't mind that - let me know how you prefer it! And, well, it seems Stiles is still trying his "ignoring the problem" method. What do you think? Is he right to do that? Any predictions for what's to come? Will Void's patience run out? I'm very curious what you think! ^^
> 
> On a more personal, side note - my uni classes have started and I've already crashed hard this week, but that gives me hope it's only going to get better, or at least somewhat steady. I need to get intership this year and it's also my final one, which means I'll be writing my thesis (on fanfiction, no less!), so I might be totally swamped up until Christmas ;/ But I hope I'll be able to write here and there, and I have quite a few chaters mostly ready for updating, so I should be able to update every two or three weeks. I'm definitely finishing this baby, I love it too much, hah. 
> 
> As always you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - lots of rambling and behind-the-scene over there! Hope you enjoyed this update! All the love ❤


	13. eyes watching

The shit-storm picks up again when they find Tracy. And it’s more than unnerving not only by how _unnatural_ her supernatural status is – from what Deaton’s telling them – but also by how his magic is unsettled by her very presence. It’s like the buzz in his veins turns into an angry hive of hornets, attacking him with _wrong, wrong, wrong_. Flaring and thrumming like thunder in his bones, the magic refuses to be ignored, so that’s probably one of the reasons why Stiles can’t focus right now – as she’s all laid out and unconscious on the examination table, Deaton working around and Malia’s words ringing in his ears – but there’s something else, too, that doesn’t ease his mind.

When he looks into the small back corridor in the Animal Clinic, at the door leading there, Stiles can _oh so easily_ picture what’s ahead.

The vault. A barely-there trickle of active wards and beyond them–

Carefully, Stiles reinforces his cloaking, masking the shudder trailing over his spine so his were-friends won't pick up on it. The connection is quiet and Void doesn't comment – which Stiles is thankful for with so many other people around – but he's also not hiding; as if it's just a normal day, normal place, nothing out of ordinary. And, the thing is, Stiles visited the clinic plenty of times but never since– _since_ , and the temptation, the little thrill over and under his rune – as excited as it is terrifying – was never this prominent. The worst part, though? It's Stiles. It's _all_ Stiles. He's barely keeping himself glued to the floor, gathering every last wisp of his whitering resolve to _not_ go in there and see, and _take_.

That's probably why he notices it a while too late – the flare along his shoulder, his vigilant eye screaming a warning that gets lost in Stiles' jumbled thoughts. His mind snaps back to present only when Tracy hits him, the venom immediately arresting any and every move. He's cussing a storm in his own head as the others are reduced to paralyzed puppets with strings cut – and the girl escapes, breaking through the mountain ash.

Fucking fantastic.

Just what they needed, a new threat immune to their only defenses. Even the trickle of Void's presence settling in closer is subdued in wary interest.

_You don't know what the hell she is by any chance, do you?_

_Exactly what, no, an experiment gone bad? Possibly._

Stiles almost wants to argue that whatever experiment she is, it may have gone _well_ , with that supernatural-but-immune-to-mountain-ash advantage, and yet… The magic in his veins, subdued now, is adamant that something is very, very wrong with her, and not only on the never before seen anything like this front. It's also not what Stiles should be focusing on right now – because he can't fucking move.

_You could try to burn through the venom,_ but _all present would know you're not human. Your choice, little fox._

Just his fucking luck. Tracy may be on a killing spree right now and he can't do anything unless he's ready to paint a target on his back – and as much as Stiles cares about the supposed innocent victims-to-be he likes his life just fine for now. So waiting it is.

When Malia's the first to get up, Stiles is probably the most relieved – she's good at following scents and at least will make sure that Tracy won't hurt anyone else. Still, it takes the rest of them too long for his liking, so long in fact fucking Theo finds them – and it's not even funny that him showing up is enough to drive Stiles frustration up a wall and make his magic burn through the rest of the venom before the guy can touch him. Theo looks both surprised and somehow disgruntled as Stiles waves him away, getting to his feet without any help as Deaton's still partly paralyzed. Void's amusement only fuels his low-simmering hatred. He can't even protest against bringing Theo, because _they need all the help they can get,_ of course.

_Easy, Stiles. Can't say I'm not pleased you hate him so much but be careful not to sabotage yourself._

_Well, I have you to remind me of that, don't I?_

Stiles didn't even mean it seriously – partly, yes, but it was more frustration speaking than anything else, and yet Void's chuckle is as fond as it is amused; just as his voice when he answers.

_That you do, little fox._

And the small, fuzzy ball living inside his chest preens, so, so pleased, delighted with the tone and the voice and the attention– Stiles ignores it, or tries to, and they follow in Malia's steps.

It’s common sense, if a bit grim, to expect at least a mild disaster from whatever could have happened in the meantime, especially when it leads them to the station – the amount of nightmares he had with that place – but what Stiles would never, _ever_ expect was to see Lydia – laying on the ground in a pool of her own blood, a deep gash in her side.

Kira's there and people are moving around, but Stiles stands frozen in the doorway, eyes glued to the wound seeping crimson. It takes Theo again, that asshole, stepping up to Lydia with his belt and putting pressure to shake Stiles out of his shock.

They're trying to get him to go, _Lydia_ is looking at him like she urges him to go, but no way in _hell_ is he leaving her like that. His magic surges up, eager, a fire in his veins ready for just a thought, and Stiles falls to one knee. Taking her hand, he places a barely-there kiss to her knuckles and thinks, viciously, _you're going to be okay_. Because there's no other option for Lydia Martin.

Unconsciously, without asking, without wondering, Stiles traces invisible runes into her hand, her arm, doesn't know if they flash golden or if he managed to hide it without meaning to but he doesn't care, not now, not when Lydia looks up to him with tears and understanding and thanks.

"You're going to be alright, Lyds," he repeats, steady, hard as steel, squeezing her hand one last time as his dad urges him to go with them.

And she nods, smiles despite the pain he _feels_ in the air, a trickle of sweetness down his spine. He doesn’t even realize he’s been taking it all along, black veins creeping up his hand and arm, nor does he notice the eyes watching him with intent.

"I will, now," she adds, like a promise, an understanding no one else is privy to maybe beside the sheriff, then her hand pushes at his hold weakly. "Go."

So he goes, heart heavy and pounding, full of so much conviction that if it fails he'll go mad, is sure of it, but there are others who need help, there's Tracy in the basement with Lydia's _mom_ , goddammit, and Malia’s with them, so Stiles follows Scott, follows his dad, hopes not to find a body. But _of course_ they do.

"It wasn’t me! I promise, there were these other guys!"

Malia's frantic, scared out of her wits in a way Stiles has never seen before and Tracy doesn't look like she died from claws or fangs. Her description fuels the ever-present dread in Stiles' stomach, but also seems to pique Void's interest.

_You know them?_

_Of them, yes, but I have only heard rumors that_ may _fit._

"Hey, it's alright," he says anyway, putting a comforting hand on Malia's shoulder. "I believe you. We'll look into it."

He turns his eyes on Scott, who seems dubious, but nods nonetheless. And, idly, Stiles wonders when it happened – that the alpha wouldn’t believe his own pack immediately.

_When we get back home you're telling me everything you know. Even if it's only rumors._

_Of course_ , Void sounds amused as always, but Stiles can't help but think there's hidden wariness underneath. _Whatever you need, little fox._

The words slash through his very core, hot and persistent in that low, smooth drawl that always seems to carry a vicious kind of promise underneath. One in no way related to the topic at hand. Stiles doesn't dare to try it, not yet.

Turns out it’s not much – indeed only rumors, hard to believe ones too. Humans trying to prolong their lives, looking for ways both in blood magic and then human science, delving into increasingly horror-filled experiments, on both supernaturals and others. Only ever whispered about, not even sure if they truly existed.

_You never checked on them?_ Stiles wonders, finishing up the compiled information on a sheet of paper to be taped on his crime-board.

_I was planning to,_ the demon admits, idle and nonchalant, _but the war kept most of my attention, and then… Well, you know what happened then._

Stiles shudders at the growl-like rasp of that last sentence, a sharp edge under the words he doesn’t dare to touch. So he tapes the paper in its place, in one corner where it doesn’t attract attention if ever he allowed someone to look through his findings. Even just looking at it he’s filled with cold dread, heavy in the pit of his stomach.

_Seems you may get the chance to do it, after all_ , he thinks back, swallowing through dry throat.

Void hums, a low sound that almost feels like a purr in his own chest, and there it is – the lightest of brushes against Stiles’ bare arm, cool and ghostly, raising gooseflesh in its wake. Like an impression of a body.

_Seems we may._

Few days later – brain abuzz with too many theories and thoughts and the dread still so, so heavy it’s like a leaden weight pulling him down – Stiles is so tired and on edge already that his vigil slips. In the very worst moment possible.

By that time, with all the knowledge and suspicions he has, Stiles should’ve known better than to fall asleep in the library. Though, sue him that he expected his friends – or at least the _staff_ that _works there_ – to wake him up before it gets totally dark and he’s stranded there. Because of course Roscoe acts up again and nothing good ever comes from his jeep breaking down in empty parking lots. Seriously, he needs to reserve one day to finally fix it for good, probably take it to shop too, his magic doesn’t seem to be enough to keep it going – or he doesn’t believe it’s enough so it breaks down. The amusement down their connection is wholly expected too, Void would tell him the same. All in all, Stiles’ head is definitely not where it should be. He’s tired, groggy, leaning over the engine with his wrench in hand and trying to coax the answers from the machinery when the runes on his left shoulder flare up.

It’s only a second of advantage, barely enough.

Stiles lunges, on instinct, out of the way – throws the hand clenching his wrench behind him and the sickening crunch of it connecting with bone rings in his ears. A growl tears through air, their eyes connect–

Donovan. It’s Donovan.

Of _fucking_ course.

The guy lunges at him, mouth full of teeth on top of inhuman speed and strength. Only his magic and runes guide Stiles in deflecting, barely avoiding the assault, but he’s still just a human in flesh. Donovan gets a hold of him, something trying to nip at Stiles’ skin through his plaid, something sharp, but the power flares, _furious_ , and Stiles throws Donovan away with a blast of shock-wave that rattles Roscoe beside him. Donovan lands a few feet away, growl hissing around mouthful of fangs, but it’s not enough to knock him out. Stiles doesn’t stay to see, though. His blood rushes hot with adrenaline and he takes off, knowing the chimera’s following without the need to look back.

There’s not even a direction to his frantic steps – Stiles tears through the school, to the library, cutting himself off, trying to _think_ , as his mind runs haywire, overloaded with sharp teeth, snarled threats and the way his power sings like fire in his veins. Panic seizes his lungs, but his body is high on adrenaline and his ink flares up all the way through his left arm and shoulder, both keeping him from leveling the building and trying to keep him in one piece. But it also makes them useless otherwise.

So he hides between the shelves, clutching at the wood with barely a thought spared to not crack it with the force of his hold. The vicious, vengeful kind of fury climbs up his lungs, his throat, pushes at his clenched teeth as he listens to Donovan spewing bullshit, railing him up on purpose, and Stiles _knows,_ but it doesn’t change the fact how much his power demands to be let out, to destroy the threat, show what it means to be a Spark, never let the chimera close to _his dad._ It’s his dad on the line, not Stiles, he doesn’t care if he comes out of this alive, but he can’t let Donovan anywhere near–

_But the sheriff will care,_ Void whispers, an urging, vicious kind of energy circling through the bond, _your dad will care if you don’t come back. Little fox, a lot of people will care, as much as they don’t deserve you. And I, too, would care. Fight back, Stiles, save your dad._

The words seep through his muscles, down to his bones, his very soul, as Stiles takes one, long breath, listening for steps grown quiet. It’s no good, no good at all.

_Save yourself._

This time there’s no warning, all of his runes are already fired up, pulsing and keeping him together. When the hands shoot through the shelves, a scream tears from Stiles’ throat, raw and terrified. He struggles, tries to fight back with empty hands, the wrench falls out of his grip somewhere along the way, and the assault of sensations, of his magic acting up, of punches thrown, growls and threats, throws Stiles so off-balance he can’t–

_Focus, Stiles, use your magic!_

The skirmish takes them to the middle of the library, there’s something trying to bite through his clothes, mouth full of teeth leering down on him, but it’s the words that finally cut in–

„Your death will break the sheriff and then, then _I’ll kill him too._ ”

An inhuman growl tears Stiles' throat apart.

With strength he shouldn’t have, aided by a surge of vicious power, Stiles throws Donovan off and into the scaffolding. There’s a crash, something loosening, his sight is sharper than ever, while blurry on the edges, and Donovan falls to his knees, pain saturating the air with coppery sweetness, then tries to get up–

And Stiles throws him back into the scaffolding _again_ , no touch, just a thought, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. It’s so strong Donovan bounces off, falls to the floor a few feet away, but another crash sounds in the air, a rattle of metal, of beams clattering down – and a scream fills the library.

All the air leaves Stiles’ lungs.

The sound rings in his ears, hollow and haunting, as Donovan lays twisted on the floor, choking on his own blood.

Caught in some horror-induced mindset, Stiles steps closer, watches crimson staining the floor, Donovan’s chest barely rising around the metal beam seared clear between his ribs. It’s a morbid, nightmare-inducing image that gets caught under Stiles’ eyelids, one that will never leave him. As he reaches out, not sure what he’s even doing, something silver trickles down with blood, then Donovan gives one last heave and stills, eyes glassy.

It’s like the school all over again, the Chemist laying on the floor with his face blasted off and Stiles unable to look away, frozen, magic burning his insides, but mind completely empty. This time, though, this time he’s not alone.

_He’s dead, Stiles._

The words do the trick. Stiles startles, takes a step back, then another, heaves in a shaking breath and with it the potent but fading bitter-sweet pain still permeating the air – it seeps through his skin and leaks down the connection.

He killed him. Stiles _killed him_. And it’s not even the first one, it’s a _second._ Two lives, Stiles ended _two lives_. Panic’s climbing up his lungs, his throat, claws at his skin from the inside, catches his breath–

_You did what you had to,_ Void insists, hard and steady, a voice commanding to listen, breaking through the terrified haze over Stiles’ mind. _You saved your life, saved your dad, Stiles._

_But–_

_He wouldn’t stop. Even caught, you think he wouldn’t get out? Wouldn’t try to get his petty revenge?_

Stiles swallows thickly, takes another step back, focuses on Void’s tone, on his presence in the bond – an anchor in the raging storm, unmovable, unfaltering.

_You did well, little fox, and you saved lives._

That little acknowledgment, simple praise for something he shouldn't get one for, spreads warm and honey-thick in his chest, stinging behind his eyelids. But it’s working. Stiles latches onto the words, the heat pooling through the bond and tries to think about his dad, killed or left alone – and that’s even worse, in a way – _death doesn’t happen to you, it happens to everyone around you._ So he listens, to himself, to Void; grasps, desperately, at the steady as a rock reassurance flowing down the bond, keeping him together as much as the runes, still heated over his arm. But he can’t leave this like that, he can’t–

The phone sits innocently as Stiles steps closer, fights with himself every foot of the way, but he has to do this at least. It would eat away at his sanity if he didn’t. Still, when he hears the deputy on the other end, he can’t force his voice out, breaths heavy and ragged, tries to muster any will left, but it’s not working. He waits only until it’s clear they’re sending someone to check it out, then he smashes the receiver down and flies out of the library with almost inhuman speed.

His mind runs frantic as he smashes Roscoe’s hood down and gets in the driver seat, gripping the wheel with bloodied fingers. There’s not a single coherent thought in his head, just flashes, the school, the beam, the current of electricity down his veins, how it _felt_ , to release that shock-wave, that surge of power, blow up the gun, throw Donovan into the scaffolding, the magic buzzing in delight. Wild, short breaths leave his lungs frosted over, seized in an invisible grasp, as the leftovers of his mind fight against the _demand_ in the shadows curling under his ribs.

Stiles is working himself into a panic attack, gasping and trembling and thinking, because _oh god, what’s he’s going to do, they’ll find the body, see his card in the log, he’ll need to tell them, he can’t, he can’t–_

His shadow-rune pulses, heat and pressure and an impression of a hand that feels almost real, almost physical. And he’s so out of it he can’t even appreciate the feel of it.

_You did what you had to, Stiles–_

_They won’t–they won’t understand, I can’t–_

_Then fuck them, they don’t deserve you._

_I just killed him!_

_The beam killed him._

What–

That’s bizarre enough to throw Stiles off, scrambling his brain just so–so he finally notices the sirens, throws the jeep in reverse and hides from view as much as he can. The wait is tense and awful and Stiles still swallows down panic, hoping and dreading whatever outcome there would be, even if there’s only one possible now–

“It’s a prank call,” the radio crackles. “Nothing’s here.”

_What–_

It’s not possible. _Not possible_.

The second he’s sure the deputy is far away, Stiles rips out of the jeep, runs the same path and crashes through the door to the library.

Empty.

No blood. No body.

_Would you look at that, interesting,_ Void muses into the numbness that just descended over Stiles’ mind. _Problem solved, it seems._

And Stiles startles, disbelief mixed with a weird kind of fury, birthed from the fear crawling through his insides.

_How’s that a problem solved?! If he’s not dead–_

_There’s no way any supernatural would resurrect and clean this mess so quickly._ That shuts Stiles’ mind, if only just a little, Void’s voice is flat and sure, _almost_ edging on dismissive if not for the calmness flowing down the bond. _Something else is at work here. Question is – what exactly. And–_

_–if it’s dangerous for us._

Swallowing, Stiles looks to the spot, looks for signs, for blood, for evidence of what happened just mere moments ago, takes a deep breath, the barest leftover scents tingling over his tongue, one in particular that he follows to–

The beams are stacked against the scaffolding, neatly, not one out of place, but as Stiles comes closer, peers at them – there’s blood on one. Just a droplet. But it’s there.

The mix of relief and dread is sickening.

_Come on, Stiles_ , Void sounds softer, his voice lower, murmuring. _No point in staying here. We’ll get to the bottom of this later._

And as much as Stiles feels like he should stay, try to unravel it _now_ , before it gets even messier, the demon has a point. He can’t do anything more here. He needs his board, needs to spread his thoughts on something tangible, make them easier to connect, get to research, question his friends, see what’s going on with others, and he can’t do that here, now. So he goes home, the ride a blur, looks over his crime board and has to take several deep breaths before even attempting to write the name. It’s barely finished when his phone rings.

Tracy’s body is gone, too.

New kind of interest flows down the bond as the dread wars with relief in Stiles, battle overrun by the buzz in his veins and Void’s quiet hum.

_Told you,_ he says, easy, just on edge of teasing. Stiles presses his lips in a thin line, exhaling a long breath through his nose.

_Could it be those fucked up scientists?_

Void seems to think, for a long moment, before something of a head-shake comes down the connection.

_I don’t believe so. They’ve never covered up their messes, didn’t care about that. This is something else._

And for now, they can’t tell its intentions. So Stiles writes down Tracy’s body being taken on the board, erases Donovan’s, heart heavy and pounding in his chest, then takes a moment to, just, _feel_ – the blood in his veins, the magic, power, buzzing and surging and ever-hungry, the shadows curling in-between his lungs, the connection embedded under his rune. His arm, his shoulder, the chakras over his spine, all of his ink tingles with acknowledgment, with affirmation, and the brush of cool presence on his back is enough to calm the rest. Exhaustion creeps in soon-after, but his dreams are a mix of shattering, splintering images, of blood and fire and blurry figures like glitches.

Days pass in a blur after that, a tangle of dread, irritation and the most mundane, gray reality. At least until Lydia abducts him against the lockers one day at school. He’s in the middle of trying very hard _not to_ argue with Void about never meeting up in the dream-clearing anymore – _figure that one out yourself, darling_ , the demon sneers, all raw edges and rough growl, _you’re the one afraid of facing it_ , and Stiles is left standing there with mouth open as if to answer, but of course nothing comes, nor out loud, nor in his mind – which is how Lydia finds him, sharp green eyes looking him over.

“Stiles, are you alright?”

And he starts so hard at the sound of her voice he almost hits himself with the locker’s metal door.

“What– what?” He scrambles to right himself, shuts the locker and tries to ignore the absence of a low chuckle that would normally occur at such a scene and the warmth usually following despite Stiles’ embarrassment. Nothing comes and it hurts _so fucking badly_ , so he focuses on Lydia instead. “No, I mean _yes_ , I’m fine.” She doesn't look convinced, but she’s also holding something and clearly wanted to find him, so– “What is it? What happened?”

“We found this in Tracy’s room.”

Lydia hands him the book and he doesn’t even have to touch it for his magic to zap up his spine and pour fire through his veins. It’s _angry_ , downright furious, as he takes it and looks down on the cover. On a normal occasion, something like this would probably catch his attention as a nice sci-fi horror with steampunk vibes, but as it is…

_The Dread Doctors_.

Few things become instantly clear at that moment. One being that, as cheesy and kinda ridiculous it seems at first sight, they’re both immediately convinced those three must be the rumored fucked up scientist Void brought up. Keeping their human, decaying bodies by any means necessary – the image definitely supported that theory, at least. The second is how Stiles’ magic reacts. A whole nest of hornets zipping up and down in his blood, agitated and _hungry_ , screaming the same _wrong, wrong, wrong_ as with Tracy in the Animal Clinic. And, finally, the third–

“Lyds, did she look to you like she’d read something like this?”

He looks up to meet sharp, green eyes and tries to convey how important this is – but by the way her red lips are already pressed into a tight line, she’s probably as ruffled as Stiles is.

“Not really, it looked as out of place in her room as you can imagine.”

“So you know it’s a bait, right?”

Lydia scoffs, topping it off with an eye roll and Stiles can’t help his own chuckle, even as on edge as he is. Right. Stupid question. She’s too smart not to realize.

“Scott wants us to read it.”

“Of course he does…”

Stiles flicks a few pages, lets his fingers trace some lines, but his magic surges up so fast and so vicious he’s pushing it right back into Lydia’s hands. Thankfully, no outward sign makes itself known from the molten power running through his body, but it only makes the frown on Lydia’s face worse.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

And what’s more surprising, it seems his wariness is not only his own – though the feeling coming from the other end of their bond could be more accurately named disdain than anything else. Still, he has the distinct impression Void's eyeing the book with equal suspicion, and with how they're connected sometimes it's hard to tell how much of their reaction is only Stiles and what's also Void’s.

“I’m not ecstatic about it too, but what else do we have?” Lydia says then, pocketing the book and all but covering the frustration in a long sigh.

Stiles could only respond with one himself. All they had were disappearing bodies and a book, and he might have some rumors from a powerful spirit, but they were just that – rumors. And ones he couldn’t even share, as much as they weren’t actually helpful right now.

“I know, it’s just…” Dragging hands down his own face, Stiles tries to hold onto his splintering edges and not fall apart right then and there. When he lets them fall, he can’t exactly face the worried look in Lydia’s eyes. “I have a bad feeling about this. Really bad.”

“Then we need to be careful.”

Her voice is full of steady calmness, an easy conviction, but Stiles sees those rough edges picking out – they’re his own too, in a way. The smile that lifts his lips is just as wry.

“As careful as always?”

At that Lydia’s mouth quirks in the corners.

“Maybe a bit more careful.”

And Stiles huffs out a sharp laugh without humor, but Lydia gets it. They will try, at least. What good will it do– Stiles fears it may turn out to be none. And by the way Lydia starts chewing on her lip, eyes straying, he can already tell he’s not going to like what she says next.

“There’s more,” he states simply, a curious feeling stirring in his chest, the fox pricking its ears in interest.

Lydia nods, all at once straight and decisive – she flips the book to the last page and shows him. _For dr Valack._

“And, so what?”

“He’s in Eichen.”

It feels like the floor opens up under him, stomach dropping to his very ankles and only the steady grip from the other end of their bond keeping him upright. Lydia’s sharp gaze is locked on him, but she continues when he doesn’t faint on the spot.

“Apparently done some crazy experiments on supernaturals and now he’s locked up with them there.”

“Let me guess,” his voice sounds far calmer and steadier than Stiles feels, but maybe Void’s pouring out into it, that sure, easy confidence of the spirit keeping him from shuddering apart, “Scott wants to talk to him.”

Another nod, another chasm opening up under them, the magic in his veins buzzing and restless. But when he shakes his head to clear it, looks back down on Lydia, her lips are still pressed together, a tight expression on her face.

“God, Lyds, what is it?”

“It may not mean anything,” she starts, flits her gaze around as if making sure no one’s close enough to hear, “but it’s Theo that pointed out that dedication.”

The instant flame of anger feels like both entirely Stiles’ and fueled by Void’s coiled presence just at the edge of his senses.

“I don’t trust that asshole one bit–”

“–I know.”

Lydia keeps his gaze; resolute, steady, not a flicker of doubt, even though he knows she’s just as wary _and weary_ on the inside. Stiles doesn't have to think about it too much to guess.

“You’re going.” And he doesn’t have to wait for her nod to know. “I’m going with you. And _no_ , you won’t convince otherwise. I’m going with you, Lyds.”

She doesn’t protest, not too much at least. And thank fuck for that, because in no way is Stiles letting her go there on her own when she has just barely recovered. It doesn’t occur to him, though, up until they’re right inside Eichen - Scott and Kira stranded outside the supernatural wing - that Lydia probably already saw right through him, maybe even right through _them_. But as with everything, Stiles quickly pushes that thought away and doesn’t wonder, as if not acknowledging it will make it disappear.

They’re standing outside Valack’s cell, watching him through the glass warily, and Stiles is so on edge he can barely stand still. His whole skin itches, little sparks traveling up and down under the material of his sweatshirt and threatening to make him shiver in plain sight. His blood rushes in his ear so loud it’d be a strain to hear anything if not for his slightly better than human senses. And Void’s hovering so close to the surface all Stiles wants is to jank him even closer and drown in his presence.

It’s when the sleaze-bag demands a scream out of Lydia for the information that Stiles snaps right back into his own brain, the fox in his mind coiled in eagerness. He reaches out to stop Lydia from doing or saying anything, and when Valack catches Stiles' gaze, the man flinches.

“Don’t do it, Lyds,” he says, low and rasping, without looking away. Stiles won’t make the decision for her, but she must know it’s the worst idea.

“Why?” And Lydia’s not protesting, she’s as uneasy as Stiles, but she does want to know. And he’s glad to tell her.

“Because he will use your scream to get out.”

Stiles' sight flickers – blurry on the edges, but so sharp otherwise it almost makes his mind spin, ghostly colors like smoke rising through the air, a buzz and hum of magic and electricity, but where his gaze is focused, a sickly pallor surrounds the man. And Valack flinches a step back, something terrified and shocked stealing over his face, his eyes, the tremble in his hands. Stiles can’t begin to guess how his eyes changed – did they gleam silver, slit and predatory, or some other shade, or maybe both at once, but the effect is startling.

“Impossible,” Valack mutters, deer caught in the headlights staring into its demise.

“Either you tell us what you know or we’re out of here. I’m pretty sure we can figure it out all by ourselves and you can rot in here for all I care.”

His voice feels different too, even though his sight is all back to normal. Gravely and low, almost as if there was a growl building in his chest. Distantly, Stiles realizes it’s unlike his own clumsy and fidgety persona – he has his head tilted, eyes laser-focused and unwavering, body relaxed yet coiled as if ready to retaliate at any second. The weight of Lydia’s gaze feels enormous, but it somehow fades with how steady and hard his heart beats against his ribs.

Valack caves. There’s a note of careful calculation behind his wary look as he tells them they need to read the book, unlock repressed memories – _we’d know if we saw them, right?_ he asks Void then, not trusting any word out of the man’s mouth, _of course, little fox, they wouldn't be able to hide from us_ – and Stiles is absolutely ready to grill Valack for more answers, to trip him on his own lies, if he hadn’t been truthful, but everything falls apart.

They hide when the Dread Doctors come. Stiles cloaks them up as best as he can, the shadows in his chest writhing so hard he’s pretty sure Void must be helping, and then they get their asses the hell out of Eichen. He can spare only a single thought for Peter, trapped somewhere under there, but they don’t have time and the poorly hidden spark of the demon’s irritation squashes that trail in the bud. Maybe, one day, he’d come to ask the wolf some questions, but for now there were far more important matters to attend to.

And if Lydia observes him with far more attention after that, _well_. Stiles hasn’t perfected his method of ignoring the problem for nothing.

There are some things, though, that Stiles can’t ignore. Like the fact that, when he dutifully sits in Scott’s living room with a copy of the book in his lap – as much as he didn’t want to read it, they truly didn’t have any other lead – and tries to read through it despite the angry buzz under his skin, he can’t help but notice Theo. Helpful, easy, confident Theo. Volunteered to read the book with them, to prove himself, to get an _in_ to the pack, to show how eager he is to follow Scott’s command. But if Stiles focuses his senses properly, it's far too easy to tell that Theo is only pretending to read. He flips the pages slow enough, flits his gaze over the lines convincingly enough, but there’s no engagement in the cloud of feelings around him – it’s boredom, it’s calculation, it’s focus. But not on the book, no. Because when everyone else reads, Theo reads all of _them_.

Their eyes meet, at one point, and as much as Stiles wants to look away, he doesn't – voluntarily or not, no matter. He keeps his gaze steady and hard on the guy, unflinching, and when Theo tries to send him that easy, small smile, as if they are friends exchanging an innocent look over their reading, Stiles isn’t fooled. And Theo knows that too.

_I’d tear him apart for you, little fox_ , Void offers, a hot murmur against his neck in an almost touch, so close and yet so far, _ask and I will, gladly._

Stiles believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming ever closer to stirring off the canon route, aren't we? Can you see where we are going? ^^ Next step - some more Theo for y'all! And _then_ \- then we'll hit a big one ;> Any predictions? What do you think of these light changes I already did to canon? Something caught your attention? Let me know!
> 
> Also, if any of y'all would like to read some short smutty thing that I've written forever ago for LitA but that never made it in, then go check out ["Dirty little secret"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27182050) \- personally, I quite like how it turned out ^^
> 
> As per usual, you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here. I have no idea when the next update will happen, hopefully in two/three weeks as always, but my wrists are in a bad condition again, which means a week or two with as little touching the keyboard as possible. So we'll see. Good thing I have a lot of those next few chapters already written, though ;p 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this update! All the love ❤


	14. tired of being pushed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update because I can't help myself. Hope y'all will enjoy this one!

The book was supposed to recover repressed memories, they knew that. Memories of meeting those freaky Dread Doctors that Void assures they’d remember no matter the tricks used – after all, a trickster wouldn’t be fooled by a few humans, and by now Stiles could barely be considered one, too. But what they haven’t considered, what wouldn’t even cross their minds, was the thought that reading about bile-worthy experiments could draw out _other_ repressed memories.

_“You don't see the way he looks at me.”_

Stiles stands frozen, shell–shocked, all sense of time and reality slipping away as his parents whisper between themselves on the edge of the roof. Everything is sharp, too sharp, even the numbness in his chest and the quiver to his jaw and the aching hold on his lungs.

His mom, _his mom_ , squirms and covers in his dad’s arms, frantic like the day it happened, like the way it’s happening – _is it?_ – eyes filled with terror and body covered only by a hospital gown, hair wild from how she was tearing at the strands these days – _when was it? –_ and Stiles’ heart shudders against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears and stuffing them with cotton, yet the words ring clear, so clear, just like–

_“Claudia, he's 10 years old.”_

_“He's trying to kill me.”_

On some very distant, very far level Stiles is aware it's only a memory, one he’s pushed and pushed and pushed away since forever; the fear in amber eyes, the tremble in bony hands, the pale pallor to marred skin. But there are things that can’t be forgotten, burned into the psyche with painful clarity. And Stiles remembers.

Sleepless nights and the glare of the hospital’s light bulbs, the overwhelming stench of antiseptic and the scratchy sheets under his small hands, the good smiles and the wracking sobs and the terrified screams. Days when his mom would comb fingers through his hair, telling stories and eyes crinkled in the corners, and the days when nails dug into his arms, voice wailing and mouth curled in a grimace. Those were the worst days. When he couldn’t sit with her in case she attacked, screeching of demons and black magic and _he’s going to kill me! He’s going to kill all of us!_ Looking at him just like now. From in–between fingers, horrified and scared of a demon under the guise of a little boy, then snarling and lunging and spit like acid on his skin.

_It’s not real..._

It's not real–

_...only memory..._

–reality glazed over with shattered memory, so vivid despite laying in the dust at the farthest edges of his mind. It’s only in his head, but– but–

The way she _looks_ at him, like he's a monster, like she believes that he's going to hurt her, like nothing’s changed, like they’re back then, back there, like she’s here again and it doesn’t matter how much time passed. And it's his _mom_. It's his mom from almost eight years ago looking at him, trembling and turning and snarling–

_“Stop it!”_

What– what is he supposed to stop–

She’s charging at him now, face twisted and voice ripped with sobs and sharp claws pawing–

_“Stop looking at me!”_

And he can't do anything, anything beyond covering down, curling in on himself, just like he couldn't back then, screaming desperately–

_“Mom–_ What are you doing?! MOM!”

–as if she would hear him, hear the pain blooming like fresh bruises from the way she claws at him, hitting and snarling and slashing to the core, reaching the very boy trying to disappear within himself. The boy that whimpers as he takes every hit, feeling it slashing at his shoulders–

_...Stiles..._

–trying to plead and sob and hoping she’d stop, she’d see it’s her son, her _son_ , not a demon, a boy terrified and unable to understand why the person that’s supposed to love and protect him now turns on him with snarls and fists and sharp nails. And so he covers, curling in on himself, not a threat, not a threat, just a boy; smaller, smaller, _smaller–_

_...Stiles!_

–until he's ten years old again and absolutely terrified, wanting to disappear so it stops hurting, having no idea why _his mom_ is acting that way, why she’s snarling and hitting him – he’s trying to get away, step back, escape from the attack he doesn't understand, sobs racking his whole quivering body, he stumbles and falls and prays she won’t get him as claws tear at his raised arms–

_STILES!_

His mind snaps back to reality. The memory–induced hallucination shatters, splintering apart and tearing at the seams, broken into thousand pieces that evaporate into the night.

It’s not his mom bearing down on him anymore. The snarls aren’t human and the claws are real, not just simple nails. Sparks light up the rooftop, searing through the air in a dangerous fountain, and a guy with mouth full of teeth is on top of him, a killer intent in his attack. Stiles is only in one piece thanks to the ink that flares up like licks of fire on his skin, the magic buzzing with fear and confusion and eagerness that has no way out because his brain still can't make sense of the situation, reeling from the images, the memory, the storm of feelings spreading frost over his lungs.

The rune on his chest spikes with heat, a wave of cool, of steady, of urgency down the connection that drags Stiles back up from under the surface of the memory–

He’s gasping for breath as someone else shows up and rips the snarling beast away, a fight breaking out. It gives Stiles precious seconds to come back to himself, to absorb the sensations that flood from all around as he emerges from the dream–haze of the memory and notes the mess he’s come to.

From the electricity swimming in the air and the sparks flying high to the angry buzz in his veins and the vicious heat of his rune and the cold, cold, cold presence right under his skin demanding attention – and the two fighting right in front of Stiles.

Claws and fangs and snarling. The scents are muddled and his magic riots, thick flames licking inside–out at his ribs, but one of them must be a chimera – _wrong, wrong, wrong_ screaming through his body – and the other–

It's Theo. _Of course_ , it's fucking Theo. Because who else could show up out of nowhere to save the day, as if he's been waiting around the corner to jump out. And still, Stiles is too surprised to do anything more than watch, his skin crawling and his blood buzzing and it doesn’t matter because it’s ended before his brain even fully registers what’s going on. Void’s a quiet, freezing presence, but the only steady anchor keeping Stiles in place, and he’s barely starting to wonder if he should maybe intervene and do something, help restrain the stranger, then–

Theo rips the chimera’s throat out.

Agony cuts through the air – sharp and sweet and bitter – as blood guzzles out of the wound and coats the werewolf’s hand, slipping down, down, down, droplets painting the pavement.

The chimera falls to the ground with a dull thud. Dead in an instant.

Stiles stands up watching the guy – a teen, another teenager, a guy barely his age – choke on his own blood, once, twice, and fall into forever-silence. The pain, dull agony painting the air in coppery sweetness, pours through his skin and sips into his core, traveling down the bond, but the numbness of shock covers any pleasure he might otherwise feel. For better or for worse. And it's not even the sight that shakes him so, but the still vibrant shards of the memory and the rush of his own blood and knowing _he could’ve prevented this_ , but he was too slow, too slow, never enough–

Theo shifts and that snaps Stiles back to the fact that he’s even there. As he looks up, the were’s features are human again, and when their gazes meet the adrenaline ripe all around gets colored with something bitter, _sour_.

“Stiles,” he looks scared, pleading, _wrong_ , “you can’t tell anyone. Please, don’t tell anyone.”

Wide eyes full of worry, an almost Scott’s level puppy–dog look, kicked and terrified, but somehow it seems to grit at Stiles’ nerves.

“Why not?”

There's something not right in Theo, something Stiles can't get a feel on. Something _wrong_ , a crawl of unease just under his skin, a sneer down the bond–

“Because I never said anything about Donovan.”

And Stiles sees red.

It dosn’t help that he was always impulsive, always letting his mouth run and throwing himself into anything that caught enough of his attention. He's rarely able to stop and think things through before acting upon them, that’s just how Stiles works. And so he doesn’t realize – in that split second between the words leave Theo’s mouth and register in his brain – that he shouldn’t react the way he does. No, he should stop, _think_ , maybe even try to spin it around, but what he absolutely _shouldn’t_ do is fall for the trap it is. But because Stiles is as he is the thought doesn’t occur to him – and the flare of vicious fury in his veins pushes right up and out and Stiles pounces.

“You don't know _anything_!” The words come out half-shout, half-growl and he’s on Theo before he can think it through.

Stiles fists his hands in the sweatshirt just around Theo’s neck and backs him up all the way to the fence, only very distantly aware that it’s far beyond anything any human should be able to do, that he’s pouring the magic into his steps, his hands, his strength, and all but dragging Theo backward, uncaring of his stumbling and shock and pushing him right into the links as sparks fly all around, little pinpricks on the edge of his awareness.

Donovan’s blood–painted skin plays on the back of Stiles’ eyelids the whole time as his fingers dig into the soft cloth and Theo’s clavicles with almost bruising force. The surge of power as he threw him off, the wave of relief, the disappointed gaze he’d get if his dad ever knew, the cold, cold, cold thrill of a shiver just under his skin–

_Focus_ , the demon snarls and if not for that, Stiles would totally miss the glint in Theo’s eyes – the subtle change in energy, the tightening of muscles.

It’s all too easy to guess what he wants. And Stiles is _tired_ of being the one pushed into walls, head banging against the wall to leave a bruise and poisonous anger in his veins. So when Theo coils and grabs at Stiles’ arms with intent clear in the sour scent, Stiles lets himself give an inch – then slams Theo back into the fence. The shock wafting off into the air is delicious enough to thrill the shadows in his chest – hell, Stiles almost _smiles_ , but the cold grip from the inside prevents him, so prominent he wants to pull it out and drown in it and never let it go.

In the moment it’s hard to care that it shouldn't be possible. That it could only work if Theo let himself be pushed, that a human with a little bit of magic wouldn’t be able to pull it off. But he already tripped himself off on reacting to Donovan, Theo has it on him, so why not show that he may as well regret ever trying to blackmail Stiles.

Theo recovers quickly, though, the shock clearing away and turning into a tale of worried Malia, a text and Theo somehow seeing the body after the scaffolding went down and before whatever it is that takes the bodies did its thing. And through it all Stiles' magic trashes, a nest of snakes just under his sternum, hissing _wrong, wrong, wrong_ at the earnest, teary-eyed expression and quivering voice. As if Theo truly, _honestly_ cares. As if he was worried. As if Malia would text _Theo_ and not Lydia to get him, as if she wouldn’t _call Stiles_ at least three times before trying something else. As if there was enough time in–between for everything.

It doesn’t change the fact that somehow Theo _knows_. Somehow he was there, for some reason, watching from the shadows to see– but to see what? If Stiles would get murdered? If he would defend himself? If he wasn’t huma–

Stiles relaxes his grip, just slightly, enough so now Theo would turn them around easily with his supernatural strength, but he doesn’t. Clearly trying to appeal to him. Stiles is not getting fooled, though, the story doesn't add up and that quiet _something_ still itches at his brain, stirring uncomfortably in his gut, on top of his coiling magic.

“Well, I don't believe you,” he says and means it to his very core, a little satisfied with the hint of frustration in blue eyes.

“I'm telling the truth! I came looking for you, just like now, because I was worried–”

“ _Oh, please_ ,” Stiles can’t help but scoff, all but buzzed with adrenaline and the anger coming off of the were’.

“What more do you want me to say?” Theo sounds half-exasperated, half-irritated, but also curiously _almost_ on the verge of desperate – _interesting_ , the demon notes in a sneer – and he tries again with: “ _Stiles_ , I’m not lying, if you hadn’t noticed I just saved you, if I wanted–”

“I _don't_ need saving.”

And Stiles’ own voice edges on a snarl, the cold swimming in his veins alongside the burning magic just spurring him on. It’s dangerous, so very dangerous, but it pays off – the mask slips just the tiniest bit and Theo’s arms fall down from his elbows, blue eyes watching intently.

“Clearly.”

Stated simply, matter–of–factly, without any of the previous tear-eyed act and that coupled with Theo’s expression makes the anger boil even higher, a flare through his body right to the fingertips pressed into soft material.

_Careful, little fox_ , Void whispers in his mind, _do you really want him to know?_

And as much as it's tempting, as much as the magic demands to be let out, to wreak havoc all around, Void is right – Stiles can't show too much, he has _already_ shown far too much. It could so easily backfire on him – fucking _Theo_ is the last person that should have that kind of knowledge on Stiles, no one can have it, not yet – but showing off just this, just a glint of a potential, felt _too good_ and too right to pass up. The added warm trail down the connection, a trickle of hot honey and blistering flame, only reinforces the feeling.

But Stiles backs away in the end. Untangles his fingers and puts distance in–between them, shaking his hands out as if to rid himself of the lingering sparks. Then he looks to the body, to the blood covering the roof as sirens sound in the background, coming ever closer, and heaves a long sigh. There's still a dead chimera at their feet and Lydia a few levels down, chasing after an imprint for her banshee-side to uncover. They need to take care of that.

_A chance to meet our little body–thief?_ Void suggests in a slow purr - and the smallest brush over Stiles’ neck is a lick of fire, flaring out in a gooseflesh that raises the tiny hairs at his nape. The caress seems almost like a praise, so very intense after weeks of cold indifference.

Stiles preens quietly, but only inside the very farthest, darkest corner of his mind, before admitting the idea is the best to follow. And because he’s irritated and petty, tells Theo:

“You killed him, you’re hauling the weight.”

The following hour would probably rate as one of the most stressful in Stiles' entire life, if not for the angry buzz under his skin, the magic agitated and restless. But it made sneaking around the back corridors of the hospital and the journey to the Animal Clinic almost bearable. Through it all Stiles thinks he should be more fazed, maybe even afraid, but he's mostly just frustrated, suspicion never easing off, getting even stronger after Theo volunteers to watch over Josh’s body. He doesn't want to leave him there alone, because what if it's another scheme, some sort of plan, but Scott gets a call and they have another chimera on their hands – it's even worse now because _of course_ it’s someone they know. Someone Liam seems to be growing feelings for.

The plan Scott conducted afterward is even worse, but Stiles is out of ideas too – and his restless energy doesn’t help one bit.

He doesn't like it, there’s no way it could truly work, but what he doesn’t like even more is that not all of them are aware of it, that Liam _and Hayden_ aren’t aware of the second part – of Hayden posing as bait in the disguise of keeping her safe, ignorant about her purpose. That's a mess in the making if he ever saw one. Even Void seems dubious, but the demon has never been impressed with their plans – only mildly amused and mostly bored. Stiles is almost tempted to stay back, help if something doesn't work out – because it probably won't – but that would possibly mean he’d need to reveal himself and that seems even more dangerous. And as the conflict rages inside him, Lydia stops at his side, a fair distance away from the others, and leans in to whisper.

“You think about staying, don't you?” Her voice is strained, tense, just as the thin line of her mouth.

“I feel like I should be here if something goes south–” With every ticking second it feels closer and closer, the inevitable failure, but Lydia hasn’t sensed grave danger, so that’s a small consolation. “–to help, however I can.”

Lydia catches the meaning behind his words easily and her expression tenses even more.

“That's exactly why I would prefer for you to be as far away from here as possible.”

“What? Why?”

She looks around pointedly, before leaning close enough that it looks like a private conversation, and Stiles makes sure to check if anyone can hear them – he puts an invisible shield around them both that would ensure no one does just in case. Then he nods to let her know they’re in the clear.

Lydia's jaw clenches tighter before she speaks up.

“You told me yourself – it's dangerous for anyone to know you have magic, isn't it? We can't let _them_ know.” She crosses her arms over her chest, shifts on her feet, nervous. “Who knows what would happen then, what they would do with that kind of information, with _you_? You can't be here.”

Stiles can only stare, the words ringing true, settling on his shoulders heavy and uncomfortable.

_The banshee is right, little fox,_ there’s only a hint of annoyance in the demon’s voice at having to agree with anyone but it's mostly covered by the low, warm rumble, _you shouldn't be here. As powerful as you are already, it's too dangerous._

And as much as Stiles would like to stay, to argue the point until it's hammered home and he gets it his way, they are both being entirely too reasonable. If his dad was here he’d argue the same thing, not that it helps in any way. So Stiles sighs with the whole weight of his reluctance and resigns himself to listen, this once.

“Okay,” he can still be useful somewhere else, even if it raises his hackles in irritation, “guess I will be watching Josh’s body.”

“With Theo?” The surprise in her voice is so clear Stiles can’t help but smile – at least Lydia takes his suspicion and dislike seriously, if with a healthy dose of exasperation.

“Someone needs to keep an eye on him.”

Lydia looks at him closely, something shining in her hazel eyes and a curious curve to her perfectly shaped brow.

“You still don't trust him, do you?”

“Not one bit.”

Maybe he sounds too cheery in his singsong voice, his next favorite after sarcasm, because for a second she looks slightly dubious, as if thinking he's blowing it out of proportion, but then nods anyway. Bless her and bless him for having a friend like Lydia that he in no way deserves.

By that point, it’s closing on the time to start setting up, so Stiles lets the others know where he's going – Scott even seems happy, a sour feeling slashing at Stiles’ insides at the expression that he swiftly ignores – then he catches Lydia one more time before heading out. The flaring itch under his skin only seems to keep growing, _wrong, wrong, wrong_ and he levels her with his best serious stare.

“Let me know if it goes to shit.”

Unsurprisingly, Lydia’s brows come together in an unhappy frown.

“Didn't we just agree you shouldn't be here?”

“Lydia, I'm serious. If you feel that someone will die, call me.” Stiles keeps her gaze long enough so she relents on a sigh and agrees, and he can relax at least somewhat. “Be careful,” he adds, squeezing her hand, trying not to show how worried he is already.

“You too.” She squeezes back, a small curl to her lips, and that helps.

“I can handle that asshole for a few hours.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and Stiles smiles despite the coil of tension in his gut. Then he goes out, gets in his Jeep and drives to the Animal Clinic, trying to reason with himself through the whole journey that at least there's a banshee with them, and that Lydia would know if the plan was a total disaster. It seems it's good enough so no one will die. It's not much of a reassurance, but it has to be enough for now. Especially for the hours he'll be sitting idle, nerves strung tight and cooped up with someone he doesn't trust one bit as the others are fighting for Hayden.

Just another fun night of being “the human” of the pack.

Turns out – it's not fun. Not fun _at all_.

It's boring and it's tiring, and Stiles would like to be anywhere but here. Theo seems determined to draw him into some kind of useless conversation, all friendly and smiling and getting on his nerves. Almost as much as the place itself, the awareness of what lies inside, just behind some doors and wards, making the shadows in his chest curl in want and anticipation. The urge is so strong, so heated under his skin, Stiles needs to forcefully push it away, frustrated and agitated and afraid of what he's on the verge of doing. He should’ve anticipated it and yet he couldn’t possibly imagine how very potent the feeling, the urge would be. And torn as he is between the shivering desire to tear every ward and spell and rune separating them apart, and the need to keep his head level, to not acknowledge what he longs for so very dearly, Stiles tries to distract himself with everything he has.

So of course he ends up focusing on Theo. Despite the awful itch crawling through his skin and the blistering cold shadows pouring down the bond, Stiles indulges Theo in this weird endeavor to befriend him; even though he'd want nothing less. But at least trying to figure out Theo’s true motive is enough to keep his mind occupied. It's not enough for the hot, tingling sensation running through his body, a completely different kind of awareness, but the combined frustration keeps the worst impulses at bay. And he doesn't know if Void ignoring this internal battle is for better or for worse – the demon is definitely far closer than in recent weeks, the cool presence just under his skin, but at the same time seems distantly entertained by the events unfolding and content to watch and wait despite the sharp, cold trickle escaping his amused cover.

It's all waking a different type of irritation in Stiles. And the worst part – Theo seems completely genuine. Like he’s meaning the words he says. So when Stiles hears:

“I'm still going to be looking out for you.”

The confusion feeds in and wars with his suspicion, throwing him completely off-kilter. Stiles just can't figure out the guy.

At the same exact moment Void decides he’s had enough of being idle. A thrill goes down the bond, a sure sign of the ghost-like body manifesting, and then _he’s right there_ – a cool presence settling over Stiles' shoulders, an impression of a hand over his heart, and capturing all of his attention to the very last bit.

The contact is so familiar and yet so new in its fresh appearance it cuts a violent shiver down Stiles’ spine – spreading just under his skin, molten and coiling at his very core, the blood–red chakra flaring hotly in interest. A hit of painful ecstasy after weeks of abstinence. Stiles can’t exactly help how he gets rigged with tension, a fine-tuned instrument for the demon to play however he fancies, his only saving grace being the gasp he managed to trap before it could get out.

Then there’s a smooth, warm brush just under his ear and Stiles fights not to close his eyes as the familiar, rough voice sounds in his head.

_He's lying_ , Void says, hot breath hitting the sensitive skin on Stiles’ neck, _but there's a surprising truth to his words. You can feel it too, don't you?_ The presence builds up against Stiles, harder and stronger and almost physical all around him, a firm pressure over his rune. _He wants you, little fox._

And with that, Stiles’ eyes slip shut, just for a second, just to soak up the firm impression, the cool embrace, the hot breath on his skin and the hand over his shadow’s rune – heated and pulsing in time with his own heart. The way it makes Stiles reel, off-balance and floating, is just plain _unfair_ , but at the same time there's nothing he wants more but to drowon in it. And it’s so easy to imagine Void too, feel him nuzzling into his neck, just under the flipped five behind his ear, the _self_ that they fit in together so perfectly. It's so good, too good, too tempting – how _easy_ it would be to step out, to go in and break the wards, make it _real_ , but it's _dangerous_.

Lost to the world outside their little bubble, Stiles almost doesn't notice Theo turning to him, something bright and interested in his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You know I can smell chemosignals, right?”

And that's enough to snap Stiles back to reality because _of course_ Theo can smell it, he's so fucking _stupid_ – but just as Stiles is working himself up into frustration–filled panic, Void laughs.

_Oh, he wishes it was for him_ , he mocks, malicious kind of humor in his voice, weighted with something heated and potent and slipping down Stiles’ skin.

A hint of sharpness on his neck follows, a cool touch trailing down his arm, and Stiles grits his teeth, fights against the sensations stealing over his body and wondering what's this even about – is it true or is Void just messing with him.

_Stop it_ , he thinks, even though losing it now that he has the demon out and touching him again very much kills Stiles inside. It only makes Void more amused, though, a chuckle pressed into Stiles' throat. Out loud he says:

“Oh, I don't know, it's not like I've met at least eight werewolves in my life.” Sarcasm drips from every word, but his focus is fully on cloaking every trace of desire, arousal, even pleasure, and masking it away so it's as untraceable as it is raging inside him. “What of it?” Stiles asks, turning just in time to see the flicker of uncertainty on Theo’s face.

Good, let him think it wasn't real.

It's probably too much to ask for him to discard it fully, but if it throws the were’ off it's enough for Stiles.

“Just curious.” Theo shrugs like it's no big deal, but the glimmer in his eyes tells a different story – he certainly noticed, just won't mention it now. “Guess you really should know a lot, what with all those tattoos you have.”

Stiles needs to fight against the instinct to tense up, his magic instantly on alert – the whole thing turned into such a minefield he’s afraid of every single little step. Even Void’s paying more attention now, perfectly sharp pinpricks of sensation splayed over his rune – exactly five, like _claws_.

“If you're fishing for information, you won't get any,” Stiles snarks, hiding every bit of panic that might bleed through.

“Alright, easy–” Theo chuckles, the asshole, raising hands in a clear _don’t shoot_ gesture that only grates at Stiles’ nerves further. “–it's just an observation. They are really nice, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know, I made them.”

“Really?”

_Crap_. There's a new kind of interest coloring Thoe’s scent, ringing in his voice, and Void shifts against his back, a hint of wariness down to connection, instantly bringing Stiles back to focus – it's probably too much information, _valuable_ information. No matter he half-outed himself on the roof already – without specific evidence, for now Theo had nothing.

“The design, yeah.”

“Never knew you hid an artist there,” Theo’s voice turns teasing, a friend just catching up, and Stiles snorts despite himself, even if it's tinged with irritation. Curse his mouth, always running away from him without conscious thought.

“Yeah, not like you know much about me anyway,” Stiles snarks back, but it’s only half-bite and half-huff, a wry grin on his lips. But he quickly catches Theo already opening his mouth, most certainly to say something friendly, offer his interest, something that would undoubtedly only further his goal, whatever it is, so he rushes to add: “Lydia is the artist, she helped me a lot, so really, she should get at least half of the credit.”

_What, and none for me?_ Void breathes against his neck, then makes a small, reprimanding _tsk_ that almost causes a flush on Stiles’ skin. _Why, you hurt me, little fox. I’m_ very _disappointed._

And it shouldn’t, it absolutely _shouldn’t_ turn Stiles’ insides into the molten heat that it does, strained and throbbing low, low, low, in the pit of desires he’s _not touching_ right now.

“You two are close, aren't you?”

Theo’s irritating voice works to jank him out of the fantasy, at least enough to respond.

“We are good friends. Now, can you just _shut up_ for a moment?”

Theo laughs, but _thank god_ doesn't comment further, seemingly satisfied with whatever he thinks he’s achieved. It grates on Stiles’ nerves that he has no idea what's his deal, what this is about, but for now he ignores it – tries to breathe and relax enough to survive another few hours.

They taper off into silence after that, watching the phone feed and the back entrance of the Animal Clinic. Surprisingly enough, Void stays as he was, cool presence around Stiles' shoulders, a featherlight impression of fingers trailing over his chest, his arm, his hand, his collarbone – like the most intent afterthought, a seemingly idle caress, affections engineered and polished to elicit exactly the desired effect. A line of gooseflesh following the cool touch, a little shiver slipping down Stiles’ spine, a shuddering, squirming ball of coiled tension in his gut that thrills at every brush. And Stiles is all too weak to reject the comfort, the tease – to deprive himself of what finally feels _right_.

All the while the demon entertains him with idle conversation, simple stories from his vast arsenal gathered through years of existence. His insight on the events Stiles knows from some of his research binges or even his history class is as always fascinating, little facts about life around the Earth centuries ago that blow him away. It's easy to forget the world around in these moments – the clinic, the body, the guy beside him – as he listens, lets himself enjoy. The rich dark voice, the phantom impression, the comfort flowing down the connection, the shadows inside his chest a steady pulse and the heat throbbing low.

He gets almost an hour of this bliss, easy and relaxed and perfect, before it cracks and shatters apart. Because Theo speaks up again – as if he just somehow felt the moment Stiles’ conversation with Void lulled into easy silence – and makes all the irritation come back with vengeance.

And of course, it's about Donovan. Like he just can't stay away from the topic. Stiles isn't even surprised – that's something Theo has on him so it's expected he's going to bring it up as much as he can. Stiles gets pulled into it anyway, though his heart is far from the topic, soaring somewhere around the touch slipping down his skin. But he still argues the point, the eye color, the meaning of innocence as if he could feel anything more than the already familiar frustration, knowing he should probably be appalled, angry and on the defense, trying to protect the moral values – and _he is_ , truly, he’s _trying_ , but... It's just a flicker when it should be a tornado, nowhere near as intense as how it _truly_ felt back then.

And then Theo asks–

“What's the punishment for killing a chimera?”

–almost like an afterthought, like it's not a question Stiles has been asking himself a lot these days. Or maybe he suspects just that.

“I know what my punishment is,” he admits, sparking a hint of curiousness in the connection. “I'm going to lose Scott. I'm going to lose my best friend.”

But it rings hollow, not as weighted as it should probably be – Stiles takes one look at the frail and thin bond, thinks about the long periods of silence, about empty spaces and fleeting eyes, and it comes back with a dull echo Stiles should despair over but can’t find the will for even faking.

The cool impression of an embrace tightens around him, a brush over his neck.

_He doesn't deserve you, little fox, none of them deserve you,_ Void repeats, like he had many times before, and it slides a cold shiver down Stiles' spine.

Theo continues on, defending Stiles for whatever reason – maybe because he just killed a chimera too, maybe he tries to worm his way into Stiles’ good graces, maybe it's a step in his plan, no matter, it doesn't feel as genuine as it should by all means, with the way he acts and speaks, the deeply rooted suspicion and the thrum of magic in Stiles’ blood keeping him from believing Theo. Then the final question arises, the one he was expecting, the one that should, but doesn't, rattle the most.

“How did it feel – in the moment?”

The memory comes back, vivid and yet looked on as if from behind a glass. And Stiles remembers – the shock, the absolute horror, the frantic beat of his heart, then he remembers the surge of power, how it burned in his veins, vicious and eager and ready to please. Perhaps the worst and the best was the relief – all-encompassing and so strong it's still vivid, to this day.

Through it all, with stark clarity – cold and sharp, detached almost – Stiles realizes it's fairly simple. Encompassed in one word:

“Good.”

He doesn't look at Theo, doesn't want to see him, whatever his reaction might be, not with the way that hot, shivery feeling living in the abyss of his chest and spreading down to his gut thrills at the warm pride filling the bond, at Void's phantom touch pressing closer, a hand over his heart, over the inky rune heated up, pulsing with delicious sensation.

_It did feel good, didn't it?_ Void muses, breathes in just under his ear, drawn out and slow, so slow, as if chasing the very essence of his scent – the feel and sound of it trickles liquid-hot down Stiles’ spine. _Feels good now too, doesn't it, little fox?_ the demon purrs, a hint of teeth, of something warm and soft and wet on Stiles' skin, like a kiss. _Accept it, Stiles, embrace it, I know you want to._

His grip goes rigid on the steering wheel, the words traveling along his nerves and _burning_. It's as close as Void ever got to outright telling Stiles what he’s after, what he wants, tempting Stiles into giving in, going for what he shouldn't want.

The realization is as much a shock to his system, a bucket of cold water, as it is a spike of hot, unexpected ecstasy – want and desire and longing, needy, aching, _painful_ , the taste of it bittersweet. It's too much, entirely too much, the whiplash of all of these contrasting sensations. But just as it crashes over him, as Stiles gasps for air, Theo shifts beside him, a hint of worry in the air that succeeds in snapping him back to reality in a surge of sudden panic and buzzing magic.

“What? What is it?”

Theo sniffs, a frown between his eyebrows.

“A scent. Like something burning.”

He doesn't get the time to say more. Just as the smell reaches Stiles' senses, as his magic flares up and his runes spike hotly on his skin, several things happen at once. A bright flash of light enters their vision, there's someone _on fire_ beside Roscoe that punches Theo right in the face and the force of it sprays the were's blood all over Stiles. The next thing he knows the jeep is getting overturned, his mind shuts down and the shortest burst of panic overflows everything else – then it crashes down, a spike of agony through mind and body, and Stiles blacks out.

He comes back to smoke filling his lungs, to magic buzzing like an angry hive of bees under his skin and an insistent pull deep inside his chest, embedded just under his rune, cold and urgent.

_Wake up, Stiles. Get out of there. Wake up!  
_

Heaving up in a cough, Stiles starts up and frantically looks around. He's laying on his back, Roscoe's roof is digging into his spine and there's fire everywhere. Just when it all registers and Stiles scrambles to get out, get away, he sees Theo coming from around the jeep, already holding an extinguisher and spraying down the flames.

Messily wiping away the blood from his face Stiles flops down to sit on the sidewalk, breathing in the fresh air as his magic works on healing him from inside-out. His whole body is buzzing with unhinged power, aching at the treatment it just got and barely soothed by the cold, cold presence under and around his skin, as Stiles fights the impossible longing in his chest with everything he has. The pain is far worse than the one from his bruises; it steals his breath and stings at the backs of his eyelids and blurs his sight - but then again, maybe it's just the smoke filling air all around them.

Void settles at his back with something close to a half-sigh, half-growl, cool against Stiles' burning up skin and the fire slowly dying down. The distance is back again and Stiles shuts his eyes so tightly, clenches his jaw so fiercely, he barely registers something wet slipping through and trailing the curve of his cheek. 

A quiet ping from his phone prompts Stiles to take a long, shaky breath and pull it out, the quivering pieces of his composure shaken apart all around him. It's no use to try and put it back together, not when he sees the message from Lydia. The plan didn't work – as expected.

Heaving out a sigh, he puts it away and watches Theo moving around, knowing instinctively even before he checks that the body is gone. When it doesn't surprise him as Theo says it, the were' frowns down at him.

“What is it?”

Stiles didn't notice him coming closer, but he doesn't even flinch. There's not an ounce of strength left in him, not when his heart beats heavy and sluggish in his chest and all at once he's too tired to care about anything.

“Liam and Hayden were taken.”

To top it off the radio in his jeep crackles to life at that very moment, somehow still working. And despite it all, everything Stiles can do right now is to stay put, because if he moved- 

The back entrance to the Animal Clinic seems to mock Stiles, measly little padlock keeping it locked, a weak trickle of wards inside and then- The abyss in his chest writhes and pulses and cries out as Stiles finally gets up to walk away, to leave behind what the shadows under his rune weep for, and as the aching longing tears apart his lungs, Void stays silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of a few chapters I dictated the first draft for all those months ago in June/July. It's been all pretty much rewritten, but I'm still kinda curious if it feels different? Let me know! We're also still pretty much in the canon territory, but patience - we're getting there! The next chapter is very, very important and you'll see why ^^ But as for this one - what do you think? Is Stiles handling it? Do you have a favorite part? Do let me know, I'm super curious and crave reactions! 
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - all of the behind-the-scenes info there and a lot of snippets for anyone craving more Voiles!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this update! And until the next one, all the love ❤


	15. breaking points

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another early update because I've been waiting to post this one for soooo long and I just can't anymore. It's going to get heavy here, hope y'all will enjoy reading!

It all falls apart before his eyes. They are drifting away from each other, making choices that only deepen the cracks, and the worst part? Stiles knew it was coming. He knew and couldn't, _didn't_ do anything.

The dread that plagued him from the beginning of senior year comes back in vengeance. Freezing his very blood, spreading frost under his skin, and for all the supposed power Stiles has, it’s all slipping away all the same. And he _tries_ to keep it from spilling all out of his hands, to keep it together as much as it's possible when they are already torn apart, he really does. But as he watches Scott dig his claws into Corey’s neck, a part of him recognizes that it may be too late.

He still follows, knowing and dreading how badly it will go without a plan – Scott isn't listening, though, tethering on the verge of his own desperation. The thing Stiles has been fearing the most is finally happening, the nightmares plaguing his mind in recent weeks coming to pass, and Stiles– Stiles is helpless, only able to watch as it plays out. In the end, it's Theo that saves the day, _again_ , when they were all scattered around, chasing their own tails. And so Stiles watches as the pack thanks and hugs and is so, so grateful, even though the whole thing screams of a carefully crafted scheme. Aside from Lydia, the last true ally these times, he's the only one standing back, not believing in how it looks on the surface. A storm rages in-between his lungs, vicious and angry; trapped in a bowl of frost that keeps it from spilling out and sweeping everything else off the ground.

_They are all fools_ , Void snarls, his presence seemingly prowling behind him. _It's going to bite them back, this naive trust, and who are they going to go crawling back to?_

Stiles swallows through a scratchy throat, fingers digging into his elbows and arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't respond, but he doesn't have to.

_You are so much better than any of them, little fox, every single one of them._

Goosebumps travel all over his skin, but he doesn't believe it, won't let himself believe it, even as the cool impression of a body plasters itself to his back, an embrace so familiar, a comfort so very needed – it makes his vision just slightly blurry.

_You will see_ , the demon says, low and dark, pressed to the skin behind his ear, _you will see, it's all going to break. And soon._

That Stiles already knows. Some small part of him wants it to come as quickly as possible, get it over with, the other – a much bigger one – would do anything to stop it, to not let it happen, but it's not his choice. Never his choice.

His magic seems especially aggravated as he gets the message from Scott to meet him at the Animal Clinic. The Jeep won't start again, most probably because Stiles is so off-balance that he can't get it to work properly – he so needs to bring it to the shop – and an almost familiar storm breaks out. Thick ropes of rain follow soon after, the sky turning black in mere minutes, lightning and thunder rolling outside the windows as he finally gets Roscoe to start up and drives with his blood rushing in a nervous thrum.

All the while he tries not to think about the others too much. Malia won’t reply to his texts or answer the calls, but she’s been distant these past weeks, so that’s easier to push back than the fact Stiles can’t reach Lydia. She’s probably with Jordan, but then again – why wouldn’t she answer her phone? It grits at his nerves almost as much as the message from Scott and the foreboding storm outside. It all feels like the day of Senior Scribe and yet so much worse somehow.

As he parks outside the Animal Clinic and gets out of the Jeep, already talking about Lydia and Malia not answering, he can already feel something is very, very wrong. The storm raging above is full of vicious power that seems to pulse in sync with his own magic, but the way Scott looks at him – or rather _won't_ look at him – freezes Stiles on the spot.

Then Scott takes the wrench out of his jacket. The wrench Stiles already forgot about, the one that he lost in the fight, left it there, too high on adrenaline and fear and power to remember he even had it in the first place.

“Where did you get that?”

Stiles went back to the library the next day, but it wasn't there, so he assumed the repair crew took it as one of their own or it just got lost somewhere along the way – hell, maybe the body-thief took it so as to not leave evidence. Anyway, he didn’t think too much about it, for once letting go of his paranoia – and _of course_ , this once it’s going to bite him in the ass.

Scott looks shocked, absolutely devastated, as Stiles takes the wrench – the blood in his veins runs cold.

“This is _yours_? Why didn't you tell me?”

So he knows. He _knows_. Stiles’ heart drops all the way down to his stomach.

“I was going to.”

“No,” Scott shakes his head, “why didn't you tell me when it happened?”

How could he? Battling his own thoughts and fears, his own mind, the realization of what exactly he is capable of. And that he _likes_ it.

“I couldn't.”

“So you killed him? You killed Donovan?”

It's the way he says it, not the words themselves, that makes Stiles flinch, looking up to see the _betrayal_ on Scott's face.

“Well, he was going to kill my dad–” and that still makes the rage boil hot, more so than the fact Donovan was after him first, surely Scott gets _that_ , at least, the need to protect, “–was I supposed to just let him?”

But it seems the words don’t reach his best– don’t reach _Scott_ , fleeting through or bouncing off the wall of rigid, black-and-white morals. And it's getting to Stiles, crawling under his skin acidic and burning – the frustrations, the fear, the way Scott looks at him, like he doesn't recognize him, like he's _afraid_.

“You weren't supposed to do this! None of us are.”

_...he’s going to kill me! He’s going to kill all of us!_

“You think I had a _choice_?”

Stiles still can't believe it, even though _maybe he should_ have expected it at some point or another, that their vastly different outlooks on life would inevitably clash. But it's mind-boggling all the same, happening right in front of his eyes – because if Scott _knows_ , truly knows, then surely he should understand, and yet–

“There's always a choice.”

The storm boils over, as if crashing from the very sky to bleed into his veins, as vengeful as it is furious, the words carving through his very core – _not enough, never enough, always fucking up._ Void’s prowling about too, watching with rapt attention, his own indignation and anger egging Stiles on to let the bitterness spill out.

“Yeah, I should probably talk him out of it, right? Just as he was _chasing me_ around, trying to sink his teeth into my body.” His voice turns harsh, sharp, but he can't help it, and the look on Scott's face only makes the anger worse. “You probably wouldn't have done it, right? You probably would have just figured something out!”

It's hoarse and dripping with sarcasm, with hurt that digs right into his chest, swallowed by the shadows curling and livid. His own words only half-register, muffled by the cotton-wrap of hurt and betrayal.

Scott looks down, shrugs almost, Stiles can hear the words before he says it:

“I– I would try...”

And it's enough to make the dam burst open:

“Yeah, because you're Scott McCall! You're the _True Alpha_! Would never hurt a fly and always letting murderers go free! Because god forbid you’d get some blood on your precious hands and lose that sweet, sweet Alpha power!” Stiles spats the acidic words, and the ravenous satisfaction at Scott’s stricken face almost feels like his own. “ _Guess what?_ All of us can't be True Alphas! Some of us have to make mistakes and fuck up! Some of us have to get our hands a little bloody sometimes so others don’t choke on it! Some of us are–”

_Human –_ he stops himself from saying, _barely_ , because it's not true, not anymore, maybe wasn't ever, but that's not the point, and it just seems Scott doesn't even notice, horrified in the face of Stiles’ fury – like the words mean nothing against one fuck up to save lives.

“So you had to kill him?”

“Scott, he was going to kill me _and_ my dad!”

How, _how_ can’t Scott see it?! He's been ready to do anything when Melissa was in danger, _how_ –

“But the way that it happened...”

_What–_

“There's a point when it's– It's not self-defense anymore.”

_What?!_

“What are you even talking about? I _didn't_ have a _choice_ , Scott! You don't even–”

Stiles stops, cutting himself off abruptly. There’s an itch growing under his skin, prickling over his heart. His magic seems to be screaming something at him. It's _not right_. It's not adding up.

Void’s presence solidifies at his side, brushing, cool and steady, by his shoulder.

_He wasn't there._

_Yes_ , he wasn't. So how–

A terrible kind of suspicion crawls up his lungs, the bitter taste of bile on the back of his throat making him want to retch.

“How do you even know about it? _Who_ told you?”

Stiles narrows his eyes, looks – very carefully – at how Scott's face falls. His heart beats so furiously it's a wonder it’s not bruising his ribs. He doesn't even have to hear to know the name.

Theo.

“It was _him_ , right? I knew it, I fucking knew it!”

“No!” Scott starts, half a step, but Stiles takes one back and somehow that makes Scott crumble, “I mean, yes, but _Stiles–_ ” Guilt colors the air, the scent of it heavy and rotten, but Stiles heard enough, teeth bared in a sneer.

It’s a distant thought, that it should feel more like his world shattering apart, hollow and echoing with loss, and yet everything Stiles is able to feel is the burning flame of betrayal and his magic seeking vengeance. _How DARE he–_

“And _you_ would believe _him_?! Believe _his_ word over _mine_?”

“I– I don't want to–”

“But you _do_.” The laugh that falls from his lips is barked, harsh, no trace of humor, mouth curved in a mocking grimace of a smile. “You know what? Believe him all you want! Know this – the day Josh died? Theo killed him. Ripped his throat out on my eyes.” And isn’t the devastation such a satisfying look on the _alpha’s_ face? “He told me too, you know? That he knows what happened with Donovan, tried to spin his teary-eyed tale. But he _wasn't_ there. It was me or Donovan spitting threats _at my dad_. So I chose me.”

He takes almost malicious pleasure in seeing the shock crawling over Scott’s face, but he is far past letting it change anything now. No, something snapped inside Stiles, a dam built through years of watching his best– _ex-best friend_ , dealing out his own judgment as if it was justice.

“I have one better for you. Tell me – is what I’ve done worse than changing a dying man’s medicine into mountain ash, knowing he would take the bite, _forcefully_ , mind you, from a _paralyzed_ Derek? Planning murder and violating others for your own means? _Is it_ , Scott?!”

His ( _former_ ) best friend’s face is a picture of horrified shock, disbelieving and horror-struck. Like he didn't even think about it – and Stiles is not even surprised. He is barely able to ignore the absolute glee, malicious and pleased, as Void watches it unfold.

“I–” Scott stutters, but Stiles doesn't give him a chance to continue.

“That's premeditated murder, Scott. But you get away with it, right? Because the piece of shit lives and can still threaten us! Because you're a _True Alpha_ , a miracle of existence with impeccable judgment! THE highest moral compass that’s never wrong!”

“That's– it's not– That was different!”

“Oh really?! You’re going to play _that_ card?!”

Somewhere close a lightning strikes, a myriad of sparks flying to life and painting the night in blinding white. Scott covers as the thunder rolls, rattling to the bone, and looks around in panic before locking his gaze on Stiles with bitter-sweet fear saturating air and coloring his eyes. Through the rain, a cold, cold cobalt blue paints the picture in ghostly traces for the quickest second.

“I don’t even fucking care about you trying to kill Gerard. That bastard had it coming, but _using_ Derek, Scott? And in that way? That’s–” The fight bleeds out, little by little, until Stiles can only shake his head. He should’ve said something back then, he should’ve done a lot differently, but what does it even matter now.

Scott takes a step, something new in his eyes, something pleading almost.

“ _Stiles–_ ”

“Save it,” cutting Scott off, Stiles turns back to his jeep without another glance. “I am done here.”

Scott doesn't follow, doesn't even try to stop him as Stiles gets into Roscoe. And when he looks inside, where the bonds quiver, thin and tethering on breaking points, the little string that used to connect them is gone. A small wisp of a thread hangs left behind, already dissipating, like a distant memory of what used to be, long ago. Stiles lets it disintegrate into nothing.

Lightning flashes over the sky, thunder rolling heavily right after, and Stiles exhales, long and winded, only slightly surprised he has no tears. The pain is fresh and growing, but for now he needs to get home.

Void curls around his shoulders, cool and almost tangible in the weight of his embrace – Stiles could easily imagine his smile.

_He never deserved you, and he never will, little fox. You’re better off without him._

Stiles doesn't respond, ignoring it for now. As long as he can. Until it will be too much.

And so as he nears his home, Stiles takes a turn and drives out into town, as if the moment he steps into the house it will all become real, confirming that it truly happened. Some invisible hold has gripped his insides, a frost-covered hand around his lungs and his heavily beating heart, not letting him think about it, relive it time and time again – pulling and tearing and breaking for every fault he’s ever made – as he would normally. It also helps him ignore the little nudges from Void, the demon prodding and trying to get his attention, until he eventually gives up and retreats, letting him have the space Stiles so badly needs.

The feeling grows anyway. Grows and grows and _grows_. Until it's choking, stealing his breath, the thought that he lost, yet again, another person that was so vital to his life, a constant, even if the relationship became strained, and the absolutely most painful of all – that it came to this, to a moment where his supposed best friend wouldn't believe him but believe someone else instead. That Stiles was more alone than he liked to think.

Roscoe sputters to a stop, engine dying as Stiles curses, parking it hastily on the side of the road. He gets out and throws the hood up, coughing at the smoke that billows out in thick ropes. His body is all strung up and on the verge of breaking as he takes out his tools, blood rushing hot in his veins. Void comes back too, but doesn't comment; the lightest of impressions at his side, on the other end of the connection – observing, attentive, calm in the face of his storm.

Finally, as the empty space where the cursed wrench should be stares back at Stiles, the scream spills over and rips out in a broken sound, high above the clatter of the wrenches hitting the pavement. When he gets the tool in his hand from the passenger seat, from where it’s been glaring at him with Scott's betrayed face, something freezing and fierce seizes up his muscles – then Stiles takes a swing and lets it out, the metal crushing the front windshield. It carries through the night, a shattering more felt than heard, and he doesn't even look at the cracks. Collapsing at the side of the road seems like a defeat of sorts, but all the fight has already left him as Stiles sits down with his back against a wheel, cold concrete under his ass and exhaustion creeping in around the edges of blurred vision. When the phantom sits beside him – just a brush, no words – Stiles lets himself lean on it, just a litte, just this once.

He’s almost calmed down when the silence is broken.

The sound seems eerily like a glitch, video feed out of sync, the artificial feel of it setting Stiles nerves instantly on edge, magic and ink flaring up – all through the bonds on his arm, a distinct spark of heat on the two runes on his left shoulder. And as he stands up, Void seemingly moving with him, wary but also curious, he finds the source. Three figures he recognizes – steampunk-esque, glitching, blurry, constantly moving like a lagging video, images overlapping. With cold dread, Stiles remembers – he dreamed of them too.

And his magic is so _angry_ , it's ready to lash out and _crush_ them. But he can't.

Stiles stands frozen, feet plastered to the ground, not able to move or to look away as they come ever closer. The Dread Doctors seem to ignore that he sees them, like it doesn't much matter.

“Possible subject?”

The mechanical voice, glitching like everything else about them, breaks Stiles out of his stupor, makes him flinch, step back and get trapped against Roscoe.

“Possible evil.”

It looks like they are considering, conversing, in this weird, synthetic and detached way he can't make sense of.

“More than human?”

What? No, _no_ , they can't know–

_They shouldn't_ , Void says, but his low voice seems strained, _your cloaking is perfect._

“More than one?”

The figures look at each other as Stiles' blood stops in his veins.

_Could they know you're with me?_

It's impossible, but–

Void’s presence stills, eerily silent in the bond, then without warning the phantom impression leaves – he backs out down the connection, tightening it to such a degree even Stiles has a problem to feel him. And it's sparking a flare of panic inside, until the Dread Doctors exchange looks again, say:

“Not a chimera.”

“Usefulness unlikely.”

“The danger?”

”Unlikely.”

“More than human?”

There's a lilt in the conversation, if it can be named such, and Stiles holds his breath.

“Inconsequential.”

Then they, _just_ , turn around and walk away, like it _doesn't even matter_. Stiles blinks and they are gone.

With breath rushing out of his lungs, Stiles sags into the door at his back, the cool metal a strange comfort, grounding in reality. It barely registers that they could possibly know, not when he's shaking, coming down from a rush of adrenaline and fear, the abyss of his chest crying in protest, empty and demanding. The spike of absolute terror at the possibility of being completely and utterly _alone_ , the bond so thin for a second he thinks it's not there, like the one that just broke, the one that disappeared not even an hour ago, like he’s severed the connection, no, no, _no– It can’t be, it can’t–_

The thought steals his very breath, stopping the frantic beat of his heart into a standstill and Stiles is already clawing at where it should be, embedded and deep, deep in the shadows around his lungs, frantic with desperation until–

The connection flares, a wave of heat and reassurance–

_Hush, darling, I’m here._

Cool embrace settles around Stiles and he crumbles in relief, caught only by the ghost and Roscoe at his back, air rushing back into his lungs.

_They know_ , he gasps, unconsciously clutching at his chest, at the rune on his heart.

_They may suspect_ , Void corrects, unwavering in the face of his panic, _but they don't know, not all of it, not exactly, not enough to consider you a threat._

The hardness in his voice helps Stiles in calming down, the steady and self-assured tone a grounding point, a familiar constant – true and real. Void is old and wise enough to know for sure what he's talking about.

_You're safe, Stiles,_ it's a smooth murmur, soft and gentle, so unlike the rasp he's familiar with the most even with the sharp edge of danger always lurking underneath – but it’s clear as never before that it’s no longer pointed at him.

It also makes the blurriness, the painful, aching throb in his chest infinitely worse.

Stiles swallows, licks over his lips, then pushes it away, just for a little while, just so he doesn’t collapse in the middle of the road.

_You should go home, little fox, get some rest._

Ghostly touch trails over his cheek, down his face, through his hair, and Stiles clenches his teeth. Fighting the way it makes him want to drown.

Then he shoves down the hood of his jeep, gets inside and drives home on the pure force of his own will propelling them forward. But it's not going to be a restful night.

✦✧✦✧

Only at home does the thought strike him that this is the realization of every nightmare he's ever had since the beginning of summer. The dread, the visions, cold premonition running through his veins – it came, it's here already, happening as he thinks about it, the pack torn apart, all of them drifting away and Stiles standing alone, no bonds to speak of, empty and afraid and tethering on edge.

As he climbs the stairs to his bedroom the cold numbness that spread all over his insides starts eating away at his sanity. Slowly – like water chipping away stone – it grates at his nerves, body already strung tight, a bowstring ready to snap. There's wet blurriness stinging at the back of his eyelids, shaky breath rattling his chest and his heart beats frantic, out of sync, bruising on abused ribs.

And he is alone. So, _so_ alone.

Literally – because the house is empty, and figuratively – because the bonds... They are so _thin_ , so frail and quivering. Stiles can't stand to look at them, see how easy it would be to snap them apart; instead, he gets trapped in his own head, reliving the memory of his every nightmare.

An invisible hand grips at his throat, cuts out the air, frosty panic spreading over his lungs, he can't breathe–

The abyss in-between his ribs echoes, empty and weeping, with an ache that's so old, so familiar, so all-encompassing it makes Stiles collapse on the bed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes to try and stop the salty tears already falling down his face.

The need, the _want_ , a bone-deep ache of longing that rears its head inside his chest is _terrifying_.

Stiles just– He just doesn't want to be alone, he wants, _needs_ someone, anyone, to be there _for_ him. Is it so much to ask? And he’s so tired, so _exhausted_ , of always ending up like this – lonely and aching for something he can't have.

_Oh, my sweet little fox..._

Cool impression of long, nimble fingers drags through his hair, brushes down over his cheek. A spike of warmth follows, slashing through his chest.

_But you are not alone. And you won't be–_

Sobs tear at his throat, breaking out on a whimper; a dying, wounded animal crying out.

It sounds like a _promise_. Sounds like what he so desperately needs to hear. Like something impossible.

_Hush, my darling, I'm here. And I will be here, you’re not getting rid of me so easily, little fox..._

And the demon’s voice is amused, warm in the low, murmuring tone that drip, drip, drips down his neck honey-thick and wet like a kiss. The gasp that leaves Stiles is half-longing and half-agony, a sob caught somewhere in his lungs. Because it's impossible. Because it’s everything he wants and _more_ , more than he could ever deserve, more than he could ever get, he was never enough so why would he be now? For a millennia old being as powerful as Void? Why would he want Stiles? How could he be more than a means to an end? Stiles never got what he wanted. And this– this he shouldn't even want, yet longs for with every fiber of his being. He can’t go on like that, he _can’t_ , it’s killing him. He needs to _know_.

Somewhere deep inside his own mind, his own soul, Stiles stands on the edge of the biggest precipice of his life. He looks down into the abyss, into the darkness, into the shadows curling, tempting, _reaching out_ for him with the arms of a lover, and with a wavering exhale Stiles falls.

It's even easier than he expected, letting himself flow through the darkness, the emptiness, following a path drawn by the connection embedded in his chest. When he finally opens his eyes, seconds or an eternity later, it's to the clearing. Dark sky above, trees swaying in the shadows, and Void standing beside the Nemeton, midnight eyes unreadable but for that innate laser-sharp focus and the barest hint of wariness. _Good_.

The sight is enough to set Stiles off. Like a switch being flipped – the cold numbness flares hot and boiling, running through his veins with fire-hot _fury_.

He turns to Void with something like a snarl on his face and the voice that leaves his mouth is vicious – more like the demon’s than his own.

“What the fuck is this?! I'm _fucking tired_ of this bullshit! _What_ do you even _want_? What is this game you're playing?” Stiles spats it out with such a vengeful poison he’d be shocked in any other situation, but as it is, the building feeling inside, bordering on hysteria, pushes him through. “Want to possess me again, make me a little _obedient puppet_? Didn't work so well back then so you changed tactics? Is that what this is?” His voice starts breaking, cracking on the words, but he doesn't care, not even about the tears running down his face. “Want me to let you in, huh? Give you a cozy body to manipulate around? Let you out of that fucking box, _is that it_?”

Void stays silent, watching him with that unmoving, unwavering focus, and Stiles heaves a harsh, bitter laugh.

“Alright, one down! What then? _Tell me_ , what's the trick? Is this some convoluted _revenge_ plan? Because I rejected your control and now you're giving _me_ a lesson?! Making me fall in l–”

His jaw clicks shut so fast and hard he almost bites his own tongue clean off. Void’s eyes are burning into his own with increasing intensity, head just slightly tipped to the side, and Stiles barely resist the sudden panic pushing him to run and never come back, severing the connection once and for all. But he can’t. Even shaking with tears steadily streaming down his face Stiles can’t turn back around now. Not after–

“Why– _why_ this way?”

With the words, the touches, the embraces, the comfort, the promises, the _kiss,_ that kiss that haunts him despite all those barriers Stiles put up to protect himself from the memory, from the burst of aching yearning that steals his breath. He never lets it come too close, close enough to–

But it’s too late. Stiles almost chokes on it all.

“ _Tell me_ ,” –he's all but begging now, barely resisting the searing want to cross the eternity-long distance in-between them– “what's the goal? What's the prize? _What_ do you _want_?!” Shaking his head, Stiles bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, then clenches his teeth to steels his spine along with his withering resolve. “Tell me, Void. The _truth_.”

Or he’s going to end it. Even if it would mean tearing his heart, his very soul apart – it would destroy him otherwise.

For a while Void doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, watching Stiles with that completely still, infuriating focus. The demon keeps his gaze for a long, long moment that seems to stretch and stretch until the time seems irrelevant, before finally – _finally –_ something shifts and he’s stepping closer. There’s new intent coloring the air, vibrating with potent warmth that thrills little shivers down Stiles’ skin as Void takes slow, measured steps forward.

“I didn't lie to you. Not ever since we're connected,” the demon admits, coming closer until they are in reaching distance. "And I'm not going to start now. You deserve nothing less than the truth."

Then he stops – with enough distance to rob Stiles of truly _feeling_ his presence, but not enough to prevent the prickling of his senses at the proximity.

A familiar, rich and warm scent fills the air, slipping down Stiles’ tongue like liquid chocolate, heavy, sweet and just a bit bitter. He can't decipher its exact components, _won’t_ try to guess where it comes from, but it's _so good_ , the way it spreads hot under his skin and wraps around him like a blanket – Stiles finds he can't fight it, doesn't even _want_ to.

Void’s gaze travels over his face, fathomless and unwavering, breaking out small chills all over Stiles’ body.

“Do you know why I chose you?” he asks, surprisingly gentle in that even, smooth tone.

Stiles huffs out a sour sound.

“I don't know, because I'm a _weak human_? Or because I had _the spark_? What does it even have to do with this?”

“ _Everything_ , Stiles.” Void’s eyes narrow, just for a second. “You want the truth? Then let me tell you.”

He stops, as if giving Stiles a chance to back out, as if asking if he really wants to know. And as much as it's scaring him shitless, he _needs_ to know. Or it will eat him alive. So Stiles nods, trapping the shaky breath inside in a fruitless guise of steadiness.

Void doesn't speak up for a second longer – a second that feels like eternity, sparks of uncertainty crawling all over Stiles’ skin – then he seems to find what he was looking for and his gaze changes. Softens, somehow.

“I chose you, because you were a perfect choice,” he says, so, so easily as if it's not making Stiles shudder. “I've got a trained hunter, with connections that could aid me in spreading chaos – and it would be a good choice. I've had the alpha, a considerable amount of power, and although I don't particularly like wolves, he'd be a good choice too. I could take either one of them and wreck enough chaos to feed me, but–” Something quirks at the corner of those pale lips, a spark of amusement that feels almost… prideful. “–I knew you’d find out. They’d be chasing their own tails around, but you’d take one look and know. And even when I took you, even when you thought yourself crazy, _Stiles_ , you still figured me out.” The smile that spreads Void’s lips all but steals the breath from Stiles’ lungs, his words ringing on a loop. “I’ll admit, I could have even looked further, get into someone else, but _you_ , Stiles...”

Void’s eyes get hooded, the darkness heating up, soft and heavy both.

“You were _perfect_. A fox in human skin already.” He reaches up, hesitating only for the second that would take Stiles to flinch away, but he doesn’t – trapped in the demon’s unrelenting gaze. And so when cool fingertips brush against his skin, tracing the lines of his face – Stiles lets him, desperately trying not to lean into it. Void’s voice feels like molten honey, sliding down his own tongue. “You were perfect for me. Mischievous, smart, such a brilliant mind, one I haven't seen yet, one I knew I would enjoy so, so much. And that _passion_ , that curious nature driving you on – I couldn't resist myself.”

Stiles has to press his lips together, blink back tears, but he won't look away, keeping his gaze fixed on Void – he _has_ to see for himself. And the demon doesn’t stop, fingers curling around Stiles’ jaw, the touch feather-light, cool. His smile dims, a more distant expression taking its place.

“I won’t lie to you, Stiles. At first, you were just a means to an end, a fascinating challenge, yes, a way to feed and spread chaos, but then – you resisted every time, you held on and looked back on me, even when I could feel your terror.”

There's something almost fond about the way he speaks of that time, a spark in the depth of his eyes – like pride, a hint of past fascination that never died. It makes Stiles shiver as he listens.

Void’s touch firms on Stiles’ skin, fingers spreading over his neck, thumb pressed just under the curve of his jaw. The gesture feels weighted with meaning in its deceptive softness.

“I felt your potential. So much potential and such a unique one – one that was maybe exactly what I've been looking for through centuries.” His voice dips to a lower tone, distant as if remembering something long past. But the moment is gone quicker than it arrived and Void’s rougher again, coldness seeping into the air around in something hard to name. “Could you even imagine it? After living for so long, being trapped for almost a century, starved and hungry and furious as I was, to glimpse the possibility of finding what I've craved, searched for–”

Void tapers off into tense silence, takes a deep inhale that goes out slow, weighted – his eyes are so dark and so heavy Stiles wants to curl in on himself or curl around the demon and never let go.

And then, all at once, Stiles _gets_ it. Can't exactly believe it, trembling with the force of the impossible realization, but everything in him screams out that it's true. And the way that Void looks at him, gaze weighted with so much unspeakable emotion, and his very next words coming out in a hard rasping tone, it all seems to confirm the suspicion.

“I rejected it,” Void admits, “rejected the very idea I could have possibly found it – and in the worst possible moment.”

Mad with hunger and the need for retribution, torn apart in insanity. And Stiles remembers – the conflict, the disbelief, the anger.

Void’s lips quirk in the corners, as if knowing what's going through his head. He probably does.

“And still – I couldn't _help_ myself. I needed to feed, to get back my strength, and I needed to _know_ if the possibility might be true. The way I went about it – that's what I regret.”

“The nightmares–”

“Yes.” His cool thumb brushes against Stiles’ skin, over the curve of his jaw, the lightest caress, but there's something cold in the demon’s gaze. “And no.”

Stiles frowns, the heavy beat of his heart a background noise to the way his thoughts race.

“What do you mean?”

“Not all of it was me, though I understand that’s hard to believe,” a wry kind of smirk lifts Void’s lips at the surely confused expression on Stiles’ face. But, again, just a look is enough to guess easily.

“Our sacrifice,” Stiles takes a long breath, trying to hold the storm inside at bay. “It was the Nemeton too.”

“Yes, the old stump has its very own sense of humor. You’ve given it its power back, yet it was mad at only getting a taste of a true sacrifice.” The smirk doesn’t disappear, colored with the slightest edge of mocking irony. His touch burns on Stiles’ skin despite the coolness of his skin and deep inside Stiles wishes he’d do something – instead he frowns at the demon once more.

“So that was when all three of us went crazy, I get it. But when–”

And Stiles cuts himself off when the memory slices through his mind’s eye. _When a door is not a door?_ The darkness beyond the opened entrance, Lydia’s voice begging him not to go and the insistent pull to reach and take and–

“I’ve let you in…”

His voice is weak, trembling with the force of his own storming feelings, and Void’s thumb tracing out the outline of his lower lip does nothing to help.

“You did,” Void purrs, the delighted gleam to his eyes stocking up the fire licking at Stiles’ spine from the inside, “you could’ve closed it, and yet you opened the door. You came through and you reached out to me. _Little fox_ , you all but invited me in.”

He did, didn’t he? Stiles went into that darkness, heart trying to beat out of his chest and short for breath, yet so impossibly pulled along. When he saw the Nemeton it wasn’t even a question – should he touch it. The shadows in his chest knew, _recognized_ something laying deep, deep inside, and compelled him to touch. To _take_.

But…

“Shouldn't you be in control then? If I already let you in?”

Void’s lips quirk in one corner, something almost bitter in the gesture, and one of his fingers taps gently at Stiles’ jaw, half a tick, half a calculated move.

“If only escaping was so easy,” he muses, before all signs of amusement fall away, a harder set to Void’s shoulder. “I was too weak, back then, and you had more magic than I anticipated. It was dormant still, but it gave you a lot more resistance than anyone else could have had. I needed to get stronger first.”

“So you fed on me.”

“I did.” Void doesn’t try to hide the simple truth in any pleasantries and it’s a bit surprising to find that Stiles doesn’t mind, that it’s just another fact not a cause for fear. But Void’s expression tightens then, a storm brewing behind the obsidian of his gaze. “The thunder kit’s power helped, but not as much as I needed. And I was so impatient, so reckless,” a scowl mars his cool features, “I didn’t even wait to regain my full power. That we managed to split was a small miracle.”

“So you weren’t…”

Stiles’ mind boggles at the thought – that Void was barely surviving with the amount of sustenance he was getting and yet managed to almost defeat all of them. Then again when Stiles remembers what was happening, it’s clear that the demon barely used any of his own power – he took what was in Stiles’ mind and woven it into his own game, fooling all of them so easily.

Void’s lips curl up just the tiniest bit, as if knowing exactly where Stiles’ mind went, but his expression is still heavy, the ghost of a smile falling away as quickly as it appeared.

“I’ve trashed with my hunger, with my need for revenge, with the way you were calling out for me and in the process I’ve caused you nothing else but terror and pain,” he murmurs, a slow, gravelly tone that seems to cool Stiles’ very blood – the feel of it is almost… regretful.

“I'm not even sure what I was going for. To hurt you, to test you, to see if you resist? To break you?–”

And why does _this_ make Stiles shiver?

“I don't have the answer, but… I do know that I should’ve gone the proper way, the way you deserve.” Void comes closer then, half the distance diminished in one step, and brings his other hand up to Stiles' face, cradling his flushed skin in cool fingers. A fire glows in his eyes, burning hot and fierce. “With all the admiration, all the affection, all the respect I was lacking then. You deserve it all, Stiles.”

And it’s almost enough to cripple him – the words, the tone of his voice – Stiles has to clutch on Void’s wrists to center himself as the world slowly starts to crumble; splintering apart with what he is starting to understand. That Void was scared – that he fought and rebelled against the possibility of finding what he wanted for so long. It's a thought, a feeling, an all-encompassing fear that's so close to Stiles’ own heart it's possibly crushing.

When he takes a deep, wavering breath, Void waits for his verdict. And Stiles knows.

_You already did._

“You were trying to break me,” he says instead, his voice trembling, but there's no bite to it. “You wanted to prove yourself wrong. Prove that I’m not what you've been looking for, that it can't be...”

His voice tapers off into silence, almost a whisper at the end, recognition rattling the very shadows in his chest. Void smiles – small and fond and just a little sharp. It's so much packed in such a little gesture it steals his breath.

“And all this time it's been you, Stiles, proving me wrong to ever doubt that.”

By this point Stiles’ heart beats so heavily between his lungs it feels like it wants to break clean out of it. And the hands cupping his face, the wrists closed in his fingers, make sparks travel along his body. Stiles licks his lips, swallows through a parched throat, and gathers whatever is left of his will.

“You still haven't answered my question.”

Void’s smile stretches, a hint of amusement, so familiar that it heats up that shivery, aching feeling in his gut, steadily climbing up and down his spine.

“I haven't, have I?” he muses, eyes hooded. Then one of his hands slides down, palm over Stiles' heart, over the rune pulsing with heat. “When I discovered this connection of ours, to know that I've been given a second chance of sorts – I couldn't waste it, of course.”

“So you decided to teach me.”

Stiles remembers it again, that second dream coming back like a ghostly memory, at a time when he still tried to convince himself it was only his brain.

“Teach you, yes, among other things.” Void's gaze turns blistering, weighted with a promise, and he remembers something else – the words he woke up to, the ones he repressed so much he almost forgot about them. Void leans in, hand cool over his heart and yet the touch spreading shivery-warmth through his whole body, jittery with anticipation. “I would give you whatever you want, little fox, whatever you need. Anything and everything, Stiles. Everything I have.”

It's vicious almost, the low rasp of his voice sending hot sparks over Stiles' spine.

“What are you saying?”

He needs to know, he needs to _hear_. The clearing spins around him, blurring on the edges, but the demon stays crystal clear, a sharp point of focus in the raging storm.

Void crosses the last step keeping them apart, the surprising heat of his body going right through Stiles’ skin, seeping into that coil of tension at his very core.

“What I'm saying, little fox, is that–” he tightens the grip on Stiles' neck, fingertips heavy and cool on his jaw, the press on his shadow’s rune a tangible, delicious weight, “–it's _you_.”

And Stiles shudders, the breath tingling over his lips like a drop of agony.

“The goal,” Void’s voice is all but a whispered purr, thumb brushing just under Stiles' mouth, “the ultimate prize...”

Stiles keeps his breath still, waits, and as Void leans even closer, nose brushing with his, he can’t help the gasp. Then–

“It's _you_.”

Him.

“This whole time.”

It's _Stiles_ that he wants.

“ _You_.”

A partner, a lover perhaps–

“ _My mate_.”

And Stiles whimpers.

The word pierces right through him, hot and fierce and splintering his whole world apart. It's shattering all around him, all inside him – shadows curling and whimpering and calling out – stitching back together into an image, an idea, an absolute certainty that makes everything else crumble into dust and ash.

Stiles knows what it means, instinctively, in the deep, deep dark corners of his very soul, what the offer is.

It's nothing short of what he always wanted, craved so much it left a bone-deep ache behind that couldn’t be banished – to be desired so fully, so fiercely, without question, with all that he is and isn’t, to know how it would feel. And it's _terrifying_.

“ _Stiles–_ ”

Fingers brush away tears he didn't even realize were falling, impossibly gentle, and he gasps for air, for some kind of stability, ground swaying under his feet. Void looks at him with something like alarm in his eyes, but Stiles can't look at him, not now.

“I can't– I need to–”

He breaks away, tears himself from the embrace – it _hurts_ , it hurts so much – and steps back.

“I'm sorry–”

And he pulls on his magic, a vicious strike of power through his body, to get himself out, to get away, away from–

Stiles gasps and opens his eyes to his bedroom. He’s trembling, tremors slicing through his body up and down, shaking through his fingertips. His body all but vibrates on the bed and–

It's _shaking_.

The _whole house_ is shaking. The storm rages outside, rain like bullets on the glass, lightning and thunder so bright, so vicious, so loud and cracking that they reverberate down to his very bones, thrumming with power just like the one in his veins, like blades cutting him from the inside. And Stiles sobs as the world shatters apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... How do y'all feel? Did I deliver? Did you expect it? Or did it shock you how it all turned out? Any predictions going forward? Is Stiles able to get through all those emotions? Do let me know how you feel about this chapter! Scream at me if you want, I won't mind ^^ I definitely love this chapter, it was super hard to write (and, once again, I dictated the first draft), but now it's one of my favorites. Did you enjoy the drama? The angst and the feels? I certainly did!
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - lots of behind-the-scenes and different snippets for anyone craving more Voiles!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next one will probably take some two, max three weeks to publish, but I will try not to leave you hanging for too long, hah, all the love ❤


	16. careful what you wish for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a bit of a rough day, so have another earlier than planned update! Need to take advantage of all those chapters I have written in advance, am I right?  
> Some more angst up ahead, a lil' bit of fluff and there's some more graphic violence at the end, so look out for that! I will post possible triggers in the end notes, so if that's something you feel you need, definitely take a look there. Other than that, as usual, I hope y'all will enjoy this one ❤

The house is shaking and sobs are racking his whole frame and it's impossible to draw breath, yet somehow Stiles manages to reach into the darkness constricting around his heart and slam the pulsing connection shut. The pain that follows breaks out in aching gasps spilling from Stiles’ lips, puffed up and raw from all the ragged pants, glazed over with salty tears trickling down his face.

It shouldn't be possible, for him to put a wall on the bond when it’s this strong already, but Stiles cuts himself off all the same – just for now, just so he can _think_. He doesn't break it, _no,_ he _couldn't_ , even if some madness made him want to, but the storm of feelings wreaking havoc in his trembling body is too big, too consuming, too _close_ , and he needs his own head, just this once.

The world shakes around him, splintering on the edges and crumbling under his fingertips as he floats, aware but without any will or strength to stop it. Words play on repeat in his head, reverberate through the writhing shadows in his chest – weeping, desperate, _mourning_ – and Stiles _can’t_ _focus_ , barely even aware of the physical plane of reality tumbling down into pieces.

After what feels like hours, but surely wasn’t even minutes, a different voice breaks through, calling him – it’s not the one he wants, the one he _cut off_ , the one that whispered all those too good to be true promises into his willing heart, but maybe– maybe it’s the one he needs now.

“Come on, son.” It’s rough and just as desperate if so different than his own. “Stiles, get back to me.”

And Stiles whimpers, clutching at the hands trying to keep him together, at the arms circled tightly around his shoulders, trying to draw on his father's presence, on the familiar worry, on his touch, his voice, the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the murmur of words–

It takes too much time, but eventually, Stiles manages to focus on his own breath, on counting it – _in_ and _out_ , _in_ and _out_ – on anchoring himself in his own body without the steady presence that was always there these days – _not now, not through the wall_ – and his sobs subside enough to slow down his trembling. The world gradually stops shaking with him, the storm outside calms, and he's reigning in the power, the magic so alive, but also so very confused – like it's already missing what he cut himself off from.

He blinks a few stray tears away, sniffs through stuffy nose and tries to clean his face with the backs of his hands – if he was in any condition to, he’d grimace at the already dried out salty trails. _God_ , how long was he crying for...

“I'm sorry–” he tries, voice so wobbly and hoarse Stiles stops himself immediately, cringing at the sound.

His dad shakes his head, a surely worried look in his gray eyes Stiles can’t face – the tangy scent of it is enough to raise bile in his throat.

“Stiles, what happened?” His dad is terrified, Stiles distantly realizes, the sour fear twinned with worry. “Son, talk to me–”

But Stiles can't, he _can’t_ , how even could he? When his dad has no idea what Stiles was up to all this time? _Who_ it’s about? And just _why_ it _hurts so fucking much_.

“I _can't–_ ” his voice hitches on a dry sob and Stiles slaps a hand over his mouth, willing the sound back desperately. Hands rub into his shoulders, his arms, so so worried, and a few seconds later he lets the hand fall, shakes his head. “Dad, I can’t– Not now, _please_.”

He manages to meet his dad’s eyes and regrets it immediately. A picture he must make – puffy eyes, raw lips, tear-tracks down his face and still trembling, absolutely wrecked. And yet despite the pinched look on his face, his dad sighs, a kind of new determination setting in.

“All right. Just– how can I help?”

Stiles' mouth falls open as if to say something, but nothing comes out. His whole body shudders and his heart buzzes, overfilled in the storm, yet his brain is blank – he has no idea how to help himself. But just then his phone dings with a message and he scrambles for it blindly with senses screaming something important that he can’t make sense of. And then he opens it and could break into tears right there again. It's Lydia.

_–Stiles, what happened? Where are you? It was you, wasn't it?–_

In a detached sort of way he thinks he may have just caused a minor earthquake. It doesn't matter, though.

“Lydia,” he says, “I need Lydia.”

And he writes back, just a simple – _home, need you._

The answer comes mere seconds later, before any of them can speak anything more. And Stiles’ heart constricts even further in his chest at the simple words.

_–I'll be right there.–_

It's enough to help him gather himself, at least somewhat, at least enough to notice that his dad is all geared up for work. And good _god_ , of course he is, he probably rushed home the second the storm-earthquake-whatever thing started up, guessing correctly it was Stiles having a breakdown. Dimly, he wonders if his dad was just driving up to the station at that moment or maybe just sat down behind his desk as Stiles stood in the dream-clearing, shaking apart at the seams, ignorant to how he made the world tremble right alongside himself.

“Go,” he nods, tries to look composed, even though he is still very much unstable, “I'll be alright.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” his dad protests right away, face pinched almost painfully, “you are anything but all right.”

“I know, I just…” Tongue darting out to wet his lips, Stiles reaches for his magic and pulls it as close as he dares, willing it to help him calm his body. It works enough to give some steadiness to his words, to let him look up at his dad. “I will be, I promise, I just– I need to talk with Lydia.”

The sheriff gives him a long look, very much ready to insist on staying, but that’s the _last_ thing Stiles needs right now – the worried gray gaze following him as if he’ll crumble to pieces when he’s already barely hanging on as he is – but then shockingly, _miraculously_ , he relents.

“Okay, okay. But– let me know if you need anything. I'll be right here.”

Stiles can only nod, draw his dad into a fierce hug that’s more for the sheriff than himself, then sees him off in the living room. When the sound of the police car fades in the distance, Stiles slumps on the couch and hides his face in trembling hands, stewing off the building sobs as long as possible. As long as he has to for Lydia to get there.

And so he waits, desperately trying to keep himself together, knowing, _intimately_ , that if not for the wall he put on the connection, there would be a wave of constant comfort, of warmth soothing him over – which is exactly why he sealed himself away. It’s painful, keeping it at such a distance – even his magic seems confused and displeased at the action – but he _had to_ do it or he wouldn’t be able to think just for himself. That, of course, leaves Stiles wide open to his own mind, to fears and desires long-hidden, long ignored, bursting free and reigning a storm over his body, his very _soul_. The power ravaging in his blood demands to be let out, to show the world the anguish a Spark felt, to bring it down to its heel, but Stiles holds it close, so close it downright hurts.

When the front door finally swings open, a distinct impression of death, grief and lilies permeating the air, he almost doesn’t manage to keep the tears at bay.

„My god, Stiles.” The door shuts close loudly as Lydia rushes over to him, immediately settling herself beside him on the couch, an arm around his shoulders. „What is it? What happened?”

Stiles shakes, curled on himself tightly, his fingernails bitten almost to the point of blood. His sight is blurry as he looks up to her.

„You’ll hate me when I tell you.”

„Never.”

And it’s so strong, so steady, so full of total and overwhelming certainty, _belief_ , that Stiles just fucking _crumbles_. He falls right into her arms, ugly sobbing into her shoulder, the tears cold and salty on his cheeks, falling past his lips. His whole body quakes with the weight of his repressed feelings, a flood that seems to have no end, pouring, and pouring, and _pouring_ , until what’s left is empty, dry hiccups, puffy eyes and shadows wailing in his chest. Only then Stiles notices the sensation – a wall inside the abyss cracking with the force pushing on it from the other side, trying to break through, vicious and unrelenting.

Stiles shakes, choking on another sob upon the assault – it’s barely an echo, but he’s so oversensitive, so exhausted, that it pulses in the shadows between his lungs, in the rune seared into his flesh, right above his heart. Reinforcing the wall feels like tearing himself apart, tearing _out_ a chunk of what he is, breaking him in half and sealing away one part, a chasm of pain in its place that won't ever leave. It’s making him sick with guilt, but it's the only way he can survive it, sending a whisper of _I’m sorry_ down the connection before shutting it closed with everything he has left. For now, not forever – he wouldn’t be able to, even if he wanted. And he didn’t, _oh_ it's the last fucking thing he’d want.

Lydia’s presence remains steady, holding him up throughout, delicate fingers carding through his hair, petting and massaging his back, low voice murmuring soft nothings as he's coming down from his outburst. Worry and concern radiate from her, tangy and strong, an undercurrent of fierce anger at whoever or whatever caused him pain, which is so, so ironic. So fucking ironic. On several different levels. Especially on the one that the Nogitsune would absolutely revel in.

„‘M sorry,” he mumbles after a long time, breath still hitching, and doesn’t retreat from the hug, the only comfort keeping him contained. His magic demands destruction, but he pushes it down and away.

„Don’t be,” her voice is steady, strong, but undeniably gentle. She hesitates for a second, before nuzzling her cheek on his hair, a move that soothes something deep within him, a bond resounding with reassurance. „Tell me? I meant it, nothing short of you being a serial killer could make me hate you. And even then, well...” She trails off, but the meaning is starkly clear. His heart swells a little, even when he almost chokes on what exactly he needs to tell her, what it could mean.

„It’s not about me. At least, not entirely.” He sniffles, shifts himself to lean more on the couch and look up at Lydia easier. She settles right with him, the hug looser but still intact even with their heads on the cushions. Stiles still can’t get himself to meet her gaze.

„Is it connected to your rune?”

One of her hands comes down and stops right above it, like touching it will be crossing a boundary, not something for her to do. Stiles needs to close his eyes to stop another wave of tears because of how fucking true that rings.

„Yeah, yeah it is.” A dry, hoarse chuckle, bitter and tasting of tears, leaves his lips. „Why do I have the feeling you’ve known ever since seeing it?”

„Well, I’m not _stupid._ ”

This time the laugh is real, even if short and barked out.

„No, Lyds, you’re the smartest person I know. Definitely, _infinitely_ smarter than me.”

She makes a small noise in the back of her throat, hand brushing hair away from his face, clearly waiting for Stiles to continue with his own pace. His tongue feels heavy and clammy inside his mouth as he finally gathers himself enough to try.

„It’s... it’s the Nogitsune,” he manages barely a whisper, but Lydia hears him loud and clear – and even then she doesn’t look surprised, only like he confirmed something she already knew. Because of course she noticed, _of course_ she followed the little signs he must’ve left behind like bread crumbs, she’s too smart, too observant not to follow the thread, but if she didn’t confront him, if she left him to tell her at his own pace, then– then– „He spoke to me, y’know? That day in my room, when I had that panic attack–”

And he tells her. Everything. When he starts, it’s like a dam finally bursting open – just as the sobs seconds earlier – it spills out. Spills and spills and spills, a stream of words pulsing and flooding, breaking and cracking, but coming out all the same. With every little thing thrown into the air the weight on his shoulders chips off, the darkness in his chest quivers, and the little thread of a bond thickens until it’s a rope, tightly corded, strong and steady, a tether if he ever had one. It’s absolutely fitting she’s really become one. And through it all, Lydia listens, never interrupting, constantly petting his hair, his shoulders, his arms, a steady wave of comfort, belief, _trust_ , only encouraging the flood to keep coming. Somewhere along the way he reveals he’s a Spark and what exactly it means, because so much of the story revolves around it, but that confession pales among others, the ones tearing him apart from the inside, clawing at his chest and the inky black rune.

When he’s finished, spent and exhausted, a long silence stretches between them – it’s not uncomfortable, though, just surprisingly soothing, a breath in a long run. Stiles glossed over a bit about how intense the Nogitsune was in their time together, didn’t quite manage to choke out the exact words that send him right down the spiral of panic, but it’s implied enough, the truth laid out bare before them both as he awaits his judgment.

After a long wait, Lydia sighs deeply, one of her hands cupping his jaw.

„Still don’t hate you,” she says and he could burst into a teary laugh, but he’s too tired, managing only a quivering shadow of a smile.

„How badly did I fuck up?”

„I don’t know.” Hazel eyes trace his face, thumbs brushing away what's left of dried out tears. „Maybe you didn’t.”

Frown etches itself between his eyebrows, confusion lacing his words.

„What do you mean?”

„I mean that it’s been over a year since and I don’t see a thousand-year-old fox spirit running rampant in Beacon Hills.” Stiles cringes, but Lydia trudges forward, determined and steady. „Stiles, if what you say is true then you have enough power to raze this town to the ground if you lose control. Did you?”

„No,” he’s sheepish all of a sudden, cheeks burning for a whole different reason. „But you know that I almost did today... And a few times before now." One of her brows arches and he squirms under it. „Uh, when we were in Eichen? As Brunski held us? I wanted to do something, but it felt– Felt like the moment I let the magic off the leash it would destroy the whole place.” He still remembers it – hell, it made for nightmares at times, how overwhelming it was, how angry and vengeful.

But Lydia nods, like he said exactly what she knew he would, and he’s even more confused now.

„Which means you’re working with it. That you learned to manage it. That whatever he was teaching you – it works. And that–” She takes a long breath, shakes her head a little. „Well, I guess that means he was good for something.”

This, this here – it sends Stiles into kind of a shock, his mouth falling open on its own volition. Because – _what?_

Lydia sighs out a heavy sound and her eyes harden a bit, but she’s still the same comforting presence in the bond.

„I won’t forget he’s the reason my best friend died, I can’t, and I don’t know if I could ever forgive it, but...” Her lips press into a tight line for a second, and Stiles waits with bated breath. „Maybe we should take a page out of Scott’s book. If he can forgive and give second chances left and right, why can’t you? I’ve already told you – you have better judgment than any of us. We’d be dead few times over without you, Stiles, and I _trust_ you.”

Lydia's bright eyes are heavy on him and Stiles– Stiles is speechless, completely out of things to say, his mind all blank. The freshly solicited bond rings true, sincere, and as Stiles runs over her words, the weight of them settling in his chest, he feels a little breathless too.

„I...” He sighs, slumping against the couch. „I don’t think Scott would give another chance here.” Then the bitterness settles, all at once and cutting. “Not that it matters now.”

“What do you mean?” Lydia sounds alarmed now, but he barely notices, locked back in the memory, the sour anger, the empty pain. “ _Stiles._ ”

“It’s about Donovan. _Well_ , it started with Donovan.”

And this, too, spills out, hollow and aching, like it was just waiting to come out. How it happened, both in the library and in the parking lot of the Animal Clinic. Lydia listens silently, her lips pursed and eyes hardening with every word. And then there's no more fight left inside him, the empty numbness spreading all over his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles.” She brings him closer, hugs fiercely. “He can be so stupid and naive sometimes. And how could he trust _Theo_ over you, that’s just– God, it’s–”

Lydia shakes her head lightly as they part again, just a little, just to see each other better. She’s rigid with tension, but the lines of her face are tired, worn. Stiles is already too exhausted to feel much, the memories of his dreams seeping back in.

“I saw it, y’know? I’ve dreamt of the pack falling apart and guess what? Here we are.”

“We all haven’t been in the best place for a long time, have we?” A sigh leaves her lips, heavy and long. “None of us are in the right mind, so… Stiles, I don’t think he really believes what you think. I’m not excusing anything, but there’s a lot on our plates right now, we should be trying to come together not apart.”

“Don’t I know it?” He huffs, massages his closed eyes with the palm of his hand, trying to will away another wave of tears. “I can feel the bonds now, Lyds. Our– it _broke_ , it’s not there anymore and I _let it_. And even if we managed to bring it back, I’d still fuck it up. I _would_ , Lyds, after what I just told you… And you know what the worst part is? I'm not sure if it’s even worth trying to repair.”

Her hazel eyes shine with so much sadness Stiles can’t bear to look into them.

“That’s for you to decide. And for Scott, when he gets his head out of his ass.” Her hands brush up to his hair, card through them delicately and Stiles leans into the touch. “Weren’t we just talking about giving second chances?”

Stiles huffs out an unimpressed breath, barely resisting the eye-roll.

“Scott’s shit at choosing whom to give them to. And with this? With _me_ giving a chance to the being that’s responsible for the death of his first love? Choosing it? That probably rates even above murder in his book.”

„But it’s not his place to give it, Stiles. Not this time. And yes, he’s shit at it, so I’d rather let you choose.”

All she left unsaid hangs in the air. Stiles is aware of her meaning. He’s been possessed by the Nogitsune, they’ve been joined twice-over already – mind, body and soul. There probably wasn’t anyone else who could say they know Void as Stiles does, both from the ugliest, the most mad and starving side, and from the more benevolent one, willing to share with those he deems worthy. But–

„I don’t know, Lyds,” he says, barely above a whisper, curling in on himself. „I don’t know what to do. God, Lyds, what do I do.”

She tugs him closer, tucking his head against her collarbone and her arms tightening around his shoulders.

„Well, what do you want to do?”

An overwhelming wave of longing so heavy and bittersweet rushes through his body that he’s barely able to resist its hold, to push back the words that try to creep back through his mind and soul.

Taking a long, shuddering breath, he doesn’t dare to entertain an answer because, deep down in his heart, in the darkest part of his soul, he already knows. Known for a long time. Kept it hidden, locked in a box in the farthest corner of his mind, pushed it back every time it surged up – too frequently and too strong, with every passing week growing. He was exhausted from the fight, but still too fragile, too vulnerable, too paranoid to give up, _give in_.

„I shouldn’t, Lyds,” he says instead, a murmur almost lost in her blouse. „I can’t.”

She hums lightly in response, and they taper off into silence, only their low breaths sounding in the air.

„It must be terrifying,” she speaks up, out of the blue, her voice thoughtful but in a wholly confusing manner, „to be wanted this strongly.”

The words steal his breath, for a little while, trapping it inside aching lungs. Something fierce roars its head under his ribs. And after everything that happened–

„Yeah,” he swallows, throat parched. „Yeah, it is.”

„Still... if he really wants you so much,” –her voice is considering, slow, building to something– „in fact so much so that he’s teaching you about your power, helping you control it, he’s not even trying to push you into anything, then...” She trails off, hums, her head tilted as if deep in thought.

Stiles retreats a little, not breaking the embrace, but putting enough space so he can look up at Lydia.

„Then what?”

She blinks, meets his gaze, her eyes shining anew.

„Then it means you’re the one holding the cards here, Stiles.”

His brows furrow, the thought circling inside his mind. Somehow, it calms him, soothing over the edges of the panic nagging at his nerves and the absolute exhaustion, but–

„How exactly?”

And Lydia _just_ , honest to god, rolls her eyes at him. Like he’s stupid not to see what she sees, which, _excuse you_ –

„ _Stiles,_ you’re a literal powerhouse. And he’s trapped. Connected to you, yes, but he can’t really do anything, can he?” Stiles opens his mouth to decline, but stops. She’s got a point, and looks absolutely victorious about it, a smile already growing on lipstick-red mouth. „See, you’re holding the cards here. And if he truly has no broken tails, then at the very least he’s somewhat honorable. Which is a lot more than every other threat we faced.” She shrugs, but her words ring in the air, heavy with meaning.

Stiles swallows, throat raw and hoarse, but a little something unfurls inside, releases with a short breath of relief.

„So, what then? What do I do?” He’s begging for an answer he won’t get, one already buried deep inside him.

„I don’t know. But I _trust you_ , Stiles, in case it didn’t register.” Her hands rub into his shoulders, squeeze tighter. „In any case. Whatever you decide, even if I don’t like it, I’m standing by you. Always.”

The tears threaten to spill again, all-encompassing gratitude washing through his whole being, and Stiles throws himself into the hug. Pulling Lydia as close as possible, Stiles thanks every deity there is for a friend like her before he’s even able to form words back.

„I swear to God, Lyds, anytime you need anything, anything at all–” He shakes a little, but steels his spine, then cups her face in his hands; a fierce, burning conviction in his chest. „I won’t let anything hurt you, Lyds.”

She pats his hands, smiles a teary smile and nods, letting him pull her back into the embrace. In the abyss pulsing behind his ribs Stiles feels the wall shaking, the presence behind it frantic, and gathers enough will to send a quick, delicate rush of reassurance, tinged with the tiniest amount of guilt. There’s a distinct impression of first shock, then relief, then anger at the other side – and it almost makes him smile, somehow. He sends another one, not really sure of the mix of emotions woven into it, then seals himself off again. It’s not as whole and doesn’t hurt as much anymore, but he still needs time before facing him. As long as he’s able to keep the wall, he will, if only to calm down. He’ll need every piece of it he can get.

Lydia has to leave shortly after, but she stays as long as it takes to make sure Stiles is calm and stable enough not to shake apart at any second, giving him a hug so tight and warm that he feels it down to his bones. She needs to go do her own research, something about an idea, about Jordan and the weird similarities they share. On any other occasion, Stiles would be all over it, helping in whatever way he can, but now he barely has any strength left to keep up the wall inside him. She does tell him before she leaves:

“Maybe you could go to the station, keep Jordan company,” and she smiles, soft and reassuring, “I'm sure he wouldn't mind and you could probably use a distraction anyway.”

At first Stiles doesn't think much about it, entertaining the idea of just staying home and burying himself in bed, but everywhere he turns, every corner and shadow in his room only remind him of Void, what he is depriving himself of, and it almost throws him right into another panic attack, so instead of staying put Stiles grabs his keys and walks out. His dad would probably be happier seeing him somewhat put together too.

Fixing up whatever he can in Roscoe to keep her running for another while, he gets inside and stops at the sight of the broken windshield. The memory boils his blood and freezes his lungs but he pushes it away forcefully and brings his focus to the cracked glass. Very much unsure of what he's doing, Stiles reaches out and puts his hand on the windshield, feeling the jagged edges under his fingers. With a long breath in and out, he pulls up his magic and wills the damage to repair itself. On his eyes the cracks in the glass retreat, mending and smoothing out. It takes only a few seconds before his windshield looks brand new.

He takes a moment to marvel at the sight, then starts up the engine, puts Roscoe in gear and drives out. The dark chasm in his chest expands, pressing on his ribs with enough force to strain, to make the pressure painful and slicing through his throat on every breath. It's almost unbearable when he finally gets to the station. And then he finds out his dad isn't even there and no one knows _where_ he is because he isn't answering. But before he can break out in both fear and anger, furious at how everything is going so badly, a loud screech coming from the cells halts everyone.

It's Jordan. Eyes glowing fire bright and face an indifferent mask, he moves through like a man on a mission. The blank look and the purpose in his steps floor Stiles in place. He has the distinct feeling he should be afraid, that Jordan – or whatever came over him – is dangerous, and yet his magic is completely calm, content even, no trace of alarm detectable.

But his power's bizarre reaction gives him enough of an idea of what's happening to stop the other deputies from interfering. It doesn't look like Jordan – like whatever it is that took him over – cares about anything but getting out to fulfill its purpose. When the realization finally clicks, sometime later, Stiles wonders if Lydia knew about it but forgot to tell him – he wouldn't blame her if that was the case.

It puts into perspective everything else – the fact that this happened now – and he has no idea what to do. He has no further information, no way of guessing what's happening, what caused Jordan to react, in how much danger everyone is – despite his magic being totally cool with Jordan it's starting to be restless again, warning him of something coming and eager to face it. So Stiles does the only thing he can think about – he tries to contact the others.

But no one is answering.

Malia not picking up her phone isn’t surprising, with how distant she has been from everyone, but it still hurts a bit. Liam is a bit more concerning, the kid didn’t part with his phone, and Kira’s silent too. The moment that starts to make panic climb up his throat, though, is when Lydia’s phone goes to voicemail. Stiles tries two more times and every single one ends the same.

“The hell…”

He stands at the edge of the station’s dark parking lot, glaring at his phone and silently praying to any deity listening to _please_ don't mean what he fears it might. That Stiles has already failed at his promise to the banshee before he even had the chance to try. And when he attempts to follow the bond that solidified between them it tapers off into distant silence.

Pressing his eyes shut tightly, Stiles tries to keep the coming storm at bay. Not only is he haunted by both his fallout with Scott and Void’s words, but now he knows for sure it’s Parrish taking the bodies, so he has to tell someone, but _no one is answering_ – _Lydia_ isn’t answering – his dad is missing somewhere no one knows and his magic rushes through his blood angrier and angrier with every ticking second. Intense and restless and turning the rising panic into a cold fury.

Not even a moment later Stiles is already fuming. Absolutely and completely livid. Because _of course_ everything had to go even more to shit. Just his _fucking_ luck.

And just as he’s ready to throw caution to the wind and contact Scott or start up Roscoe and go on a fruitless search that would probably end up somewhere in the Animal Clinic, where the weak, weak wards hold what he’s _still_ cutting himself off – why is he doing it, anyway? Maybe– maybe he could–

The possibilities spin inside his mind, spurred on by the aching, writhing shadows in his chest and the deeply rooted connection he’s keeping a wall on. They are pushing and pulling at his dwindling resolve – he’s so close, _so close_ , to giving in – and that’s the moment Stiles hears a nearing truck coming to the station.

When the black car stops in front of him and Theo steps out, Stiles grits his teeth so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t break his own jaw in half.

“Stiles! I was looking everywhere for you.”

It’s the same act as ever – wide eyes full of soft concern, the feeling swirling in the air seemingly confirming it, but Stiles can tell it’s a cover for something else, even if somehow part of it might be true. And that he even _dares_ to show up here and try it again after–

The storm raging in-between Stiles’ ribs is threatening to choke him as Theo steps closer, his teeth grinding together and fingertips crawling with sparks pressed into his palms. It’s that first time at Eichen all over again, like the second he lets it out it will level everything around.

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?” Stiles grits the words out, the blood rushing so fast in his ears it’s almost numbing. But the second Theo opens his mouth, Stiles’ thin patience runs out. “You know what, don’t answer. I don’t have time for this.”

Stiles turns away, fully prepared to start up Roscoe and just get away before he does something he regrets, but Theo’s voice stops his steps in half.

“I think you’d want to hear this.”

And it’s more the change to his tone than the words that makes Stiles turn back around – the wide-eyed mask falling away to a smooth, self-assured one, a glimpse of grimness to it. This new Theo he sees and hears now setting all of Stiles’ nerves on edge.

“Melissa found something in the hospital,” Theo starts, the unexpected turn making Stiles’ brows furrow in confusion. Then Theo takes something out of his pocket – and flashes Stiles’ library card right into his face. “Your dad was looking for you, Stiles. But he found me first.”

Stiles’ heart drops all the way down to his stomach. Then the magic flares up and the fury is back with vengeance, twisting his lips into a snarl.

“What did you do to him?”

Theo looks almost appalled at the spat out words, the fucking _audacity_ –

“I didn’t do anything to him! You know I wouldn’t hurt your dad,” Theo says, as if it’s a sure fact, as if Stiles would trust him with a spoonful of water, but then Theo’s face hardens as he waves the card in the air. “I actually took care of this for you. I covered for you, Stiles, but you _had_ to go and ruin it with this dumb thing. It would’ve been fine if Melissa didn’t find this.”

“Oh yeah, and why? So that you have some more blackmail on me? Want me to be grateful now? I don’t fucking need _anything_ from you. The fuck you even wanted to gain from this?”

Stiles seethes, barely holding the wavering restraint on his magic, and Theo has the audacity to look irritated, his brows pinched as he turns back around to his car and heaves a long sigh. The air seems to crackle with anticipation and Stiles’ blood rushes in a clear sign of how important the next moment will be. So he clenches his jaw and his resolve, waiting until Theo deems to answer – when he does, turning back around to Stiles, his whole demeanor is almost _smug_.

„You know, I never lied about why I came back to Beacon Hills,” he says, smiling like he’s letting Stiles in on a secret. „I’m here for a pack.”

Then goes on a tangent about _his_ perfect pack. Stiles listens, wondering and cataloging the answers, while his insides scream with the need to find out where he fits in all of it, where his dad fits in that scheme, why is he even talking about this with Stiles, why him–

„I came for Void Stiles!”

And Stiles goes rigid.

Because of course, of _fucking_ course! That’s what Theo wants – not him, never him, never _Stiles,_ but the boy possessed by a powerful spirit. How could he ever be enough? How could anyone ever want Stiles _just for_ him? Even Theo’s grand words of always caring, of coming back for him, turned out just a ploy for something else, _someone_ else, for what Stiles could never be. And it’s not even surprising, he knew from the very beginning that there was more behind Theo's facade, but god does it _hurt_. Faced with the blatant proof that he’s not enough even for someone like Theo, so how– how–

But Stiles can’t bring himself to think of those words – of the promise they carried, already carved into his very heart, hidden deep, deep within his core. The shadows writhe in-between his chest and yet again, Stiles rejects the possibility, pushes back the memory, the aching, _fucking painful_ longing that ties around his lungs rope-like, because he can’t– he can’t face it now. He’d crumble under their weight and there’s no time for it, never enough time – already shaking from the livid fury burning through his blood, Stiles tightens his fists and decides–

_Fuck it_ , then.

It’s not how he’d imagine it would go, not how he’d want it to go – in a perfect world Stiles would have time to process, to consider, to maybe even accept. To do it properly, not rush head-first without thinking it through, knowing how badly it could turn out. But as it is, trembling with rage, with fear and pain that can’t be turned into anything but the all-encompassing ache, Stiles tears down the wall he put on their connection in one, vicious strike. The bond flares to life immediately, saturated with the kind of pain that spreads through his chest hot and full of relief – the kind one would get when stretching a muscle after a long-time recovery, pushing for more on a moan when it hurts so good it’s not enough. It springs stinging tears to the corners of Stiles’ eyes as much as the anger still running viciously through his body.

The feeling that comes through almost makes Stiles gasp. A rush of freezing-cold chill settling right under his skin and nipping at his very core, sharp and cutting like the deadly blade of a katana. It’s full of frustration at first, but the demon reorients himself in the situation quicker than it takes to blink, frustration turned contempt turned _anger._ Void’s malicious fury matches Stiles’, mixing with poisonous interest as his presence chills to the bone, the razor edge of a blade slicing at his muscles from inside-out.

_Let me show him, Stiles,_ he growls, more of a feeling rattling in his chest than a voice. _Let_ us _show him._

His voice, so low and rumbling, sets off gooseflesh all over Stiles’ skin. Slithering through all of his defenses and settling deep, deep within his very core. And it’s so, so tempting – to let it happen, to let Void slip through to the surface and do whatever he decides to, whatever twisted torture he could conjure, but then Theo is turning around and his words register–

„I’ll tell you where to find your dad – _if_ you promise not to help Scott.”

And Stiles lunges.

It’s still a human strength level punch, even with Void so close under his skin and his magic running haywire through his blood, but Stiles relishes the crack, the absolutely delightful pain blooming over his fist as Theo staggers back from the force of it anyway. And yet the asshole is _fucking laughing_.

„There he is! That’s Void Stiles!” He flaunts, like he won something, like he even knows what he’s talking about, and _oh, Stiles is going to show him._ „Felt good, didn’t it?”

_It did._

The next punch comes unbidden, laced with the fury in his veins, and Stiles decks Theo right to the ground, a shock-wave going through the parking lot that rattles the cars around, the truck’s engine flickering in and out. For the first time Theo looks dazed, confused, laying on the gravel with a broken nose, but there’s wonder in his eyes. Stiles practically growls, low in his throat.

„You _want_ Void?” Stiles is all but seething, teeth clenched – he just about shakes with the power surging up fire-hot in his rushing blood. Void’s anticipation eggs him on as he crosses the space, crouches over Theo and hauls him up by his jacket, fingers crackling with sparks over the material.

_Will you get the answers out of him?_

_It will be my pleasure, Stiles. Let me take care of him_ , Void’s growl is potent and sharp enough to cut.

So Stiles exhales and with it he pushes the power down the connection, feeding it into Void as Theo’s calculating eyes start to clear bit by bit, the first flickers of wariness shining through.

„Have him, then. See if you like it so much.”

And he _pulls_ , drawing Void in with barely a thought spared, cool shiver racking his insides as the demon seeps through and settles. Void takes over with barely a hitch, rolling their shoulders and closing their eyes for a second – he breathes in deep, relishing the chaos and confusion laced through the air. Stiles slinks back into his own mind then, giving up the reins and knowing that he’s basically letting Void do anything and everything – but his magic quiets as Void takes control, the demon’s own filling in, limited as it is, but fed enough to saturate their connection. And Stiles might’ve very well just placed his whole life on this card.

When they open their eyes, it’s Void looking down at Theo, a smile curving the corners of their lips, cold enough to freeze blood.

„Oh, _Theodore_ , you should be careful what you wish for,” he purrs, grinning, wicked sharp, and Theo tenses as the fear and confusion spikes high.

„Stiles–”

Void hums and takes a moment to look the guy over – he’s indeed pretty. In a boring, clean kind of way despite being filled with his own brand of chaos and pain – one Void would perhaps enjoy years back, but that’s not what he’s after right now. Right now the pest underneath him is worth no more but the answers he can give.

„Not quite,” he says idly, slowly licking over his lips and watching the dawning realization with malicious glee in his veins. „But Stiles is still here, if you want to know, he just... let me in to play with you a little. Would you like that, Theo?”

The demon’s voice is low, a poisonous purr dripping with danger, but a curious thing happens – Theo shakes, his fear growing noticeably both in his scent and clearly evident on his face, but there’s also something else, something sweeter, something heavier, something almost like–

„Would you look at that, you _do_ _like this._ ” Void’s smile is absolutely cutting as he slides to his knees, straddles Theo’s waist with a vicious kind of delight even as Stiles is reeling in confusion inside. His chosen darling is still so, so innocent at times – Void will make sure to reveal to Stiles all the wickedness he’s missing out on. But, for now, he takes joy in the mortified fear pouring out of the pitiful creature on the ground. „You want this, don’t you? You’d love for Stiles to absolutely _wreck you._ ” Void laughs and keeps Theo carefully arrested as he struggles, anger mixed with fear and arousal.

„You know _nothing_ –”

„Oh, but I do.” He leans closer, noting the raised heartbeat, and grins further. „I eat what you feel, or do you not remember that part? I’m going to enjoy this _so much_.”

Void shifts, enforcing the wisps of half-translucent shadow-bonds that sneaked in unnoticed to keep Theo down. He’s drawing on the magic still going through their bond and _oh, how marvelous_ , Stiles is not even trying to protest – the darling only watching warily through their shared eyes. That’s a chance he can’t discard.

„Unfortunately for you, I don’t think Stiles would enjoy _that_ particular fantasy. Not that he’d enjoy anything with you, quite honestly, wanna know why?”

Theo stops struggling, eyes on the demon glazed in half-curiosity and half-calculating, like he sees an opportunity to twist it his way – the _naivety_. So amusing.

„Why?” Theo's voice is hard, seething, but it does nothing to hide his interest.

Void delights in how Theo’s scrambling for anything to help himself, at how Stiles’ confusion goes down the bond, tinged with a thrill of poorly hidden anticipation, and the way they’re bonded now, merged almost – Void makes sure Stiles will know, with absolute certainty, that he’s perfectly honest.

„Because, Theo–”

And Void leans in intimately close, hand spreading and tightening on Theo’s throat as his breath hits Theo’s ear, making him shiver. On the other end of their connection Stiles reels with bitter confusion – _oh,_ does he feel the first sparks of jealousy there? – and Void can’t help but grin sharply.

„–Stiles is _mine._ ”

A shudder goes down the bond, prickling and heated. Void can taste it on his tongue, honey-thick and sweet, and lets himself relish in it for a second, pushing away his own disappointment that he can’t scent it, the way they are now. But he doesn’t have time to revel in it further, time is of essence after all. So pinning Theo securely to the ground, Void straightens and reaches one hand out. He can’t do much, still trapped as he is, but with the power fed into him, it’s possible.

„Now, I’m here for some answers, so you’ll give me every single one I want.” Shadows gather on his open palm, writhing into shape, solidifying and slinking away to reveal a small, glinting dagger, black like pure obsidian. „And maybe I’ll let you live.”

Before Theo can open his mouth – surely already going to try and twist it in his favor, maybe even voluntarily give away all the relevant information to appease the chaos spirit – Void brings the blade down.

Theo chokes, moaning in pain as the dagger digs into his stomach. Crimson, warm blood seeps out around the obsidian edge, spilling down as it twists inside and coloring the gray hoodie an almost black shade. He struggles, trying to get away even when there’s no way to go, his every limb held down in shadow-bonds, and his pain swims potent in the air. Void lets him stew in it for a second, breathing in the delicious feeling, tasting it on his lips, sweet and tangy, before he curls his other hand tighter around Theo’s throat and _draws in._ The shudder that goes through both of them, Void and Stiles alike, is almost deliriously good, a hit of power straight to their veins. But Void pushes it away, he can’t _truly_ feed on it – feel the pleasure of it, yes, but being trapped robbed him of any way to accumulate any real power – and focuses on the present, just barely acknowledging the silent _just don’t kill him._ He doesn’t need to, anyway.

„Alright, alright,” Theo breaths out, coughing up and choking when it aggravates the wound further.

„Good boy. Now, Scott, _talk_.”

Asking about the alpha leaves a sour taste in their mouth, but despite the anger and betrayal still surging strong through Stiles, he won’t just leave him somewhere out there, possibly for death. So Void decides to indulge his chosen in the matter – it’s always a chance to antagonize the wolf in the future.

„He’s in the school’s library, fighting Liam,” Theo gasps out, visibly trying to keep himself still, control his breathing so the pain is lesser, but Void digs the dagger deeper and licks his lips in appreciation of the new wave of hurt. Blood has already started to pool on the concrete.

The rest Theo doesn’t say is pretty clear, even when Stiles is momentarily confused – it’s a full moon, Supermoon nonetheless, the pup’ has anger issues and his girlfriend is a chimera in danger of dying, the tragedy writes itself.

„Clever, pity it won’t work now.” He twists the dagger slowly, deliberately, just to draw more until it lasts. „The sheriff, Theo, and be quick about it.”

„The basement, where I found Liam and Hayden, he’s been attacked, but he’s alive. That’s all I know.”

There’s no lie in the rushed words, but Void takes a moment to consider, to twist the dagger deeper and drag it down until Theo’s almost howling, until the agony reaches new heights with the blood freely flowing and his hand relentlessly tightening around Theo's throat. Void could bring him all the way to the edge, to that special little place where the hurt is so bright and searing it would equal a special kind of ecstasy – but a new wave of bitterness flows down through their connection, breaking Void away from his idle thoughts. On the other end Stiles squirms, frustrated and distressed, and urges him silently – the darling is so shaken, in so many different ways, that Void finally sighs and relents his hold.

Giving Theo only a second to catch his breath, he gives one last twist to the blade with a grimace curling on their mouth.

„The address?”

Theo rattles it off, his anger saturating the air, but Void couldn’t care less, it’s not important right now. Pulling the dagger out, he lets it disperse and stands up – then stops, a sudden idea edging in on his thoughts as Theo chokes and squirms at his feet. Maybe–

He can’t exactly access any mind aside from Stiles' now, but the knowledge they both already have is quite enough to draw a conclusion of what, exactly, that little pretend-wolf could truly be afraid of. Not the Doctors, no, that would be too easy, but–

Tipping his head slightly to the side, he gives Theo a long look of consideration.

He might as well.

„I’d like to think that this would teach you a lesson, but that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? _No_ , you prefer a bit more… _personal_ approach,” Void muses, noting the spiking fear and drawing on the darkness all around. “Consider this a special gift for your... cooperation.”

And before Theo can do much more than look up with wide eyes Void gathers the last wisps of his power and sends Theo down a spiral of his own worst fears, just a little nudge of shadows that turn one’s mind into a trap made of pure nightmares.

On the outside it looks like he passes out, but from the inside of his own head, Stiles sees the translucent image of Void’s illusion – Theo writhing on the ground as few feet away the concrete cracks, breaks, and from it climbs a girl with torn clothes, wet to the bone, a horror induced picture if he ever saw one. That, that’s–

_It’s Tara..._

_His sister, yes._ Void gives his work one last look. It should hold for a while. _It will keep him occupied for a few hours._

Then he’s turning away without a second thought, snatching the keys to Theo’s truck on the way and getting right behind the wheel of the idling car.

_Want me to drive or do you–_

_No, I shouldn’t,_ Stiles would swallow thickly if he could, but even his mental voice shakes with how high-strung with anxiety he is, _at least not now. Just... make sure–_

_I know,_ Void’s dialing his friends’ numbers before Stiles can even ask, _I’ll take care of it._

No one answers, every single one going to voicemail, so Void sends out a simple message to all of them, what’s going on with Scott and where to find him before he’s dialing the 911, all the while driving to the address Theo rattled off, far above the speed limit and yet completely steady. Stiles can’t even bother to hide his appreciation, he’s a quivering mess barely held up by the soothing cool of their bond.

„911, what’s your emergency?”

„My dad! It’s my dad, he’s been attacked–”

„Hold on, Stiles, where is he?”

Half in wonder, half slightly terrified, Stiles yet again gets a first view of how good Void’s impression of him truly is – he knows the operator at the end of the line, recognizes John right away, but the man doesn’t ever catch anything out of ordinary, believing Void right away – and thank god for that. As they get the confirmation that an ambulance is on its way, Void cuts the call off, completely in-character for Stiles with a rambled „I’m sorry, I’m almost there, I gotta–” then revs the engine even more, completely focused on driving. It’s way too fast and almost reckless if not for the fact how steady, how precise he is, like it’s everything he’s ever been doing. It’s honestly mind-boggling, but that’s also not what steals Stiles’ focus.

His heart pounds, hard and fast, because the basic functions seem to still be influenced by Stiles’ feelings, even when Void exudes complete confidence, an aura of self-assurance and calm that soothes over the panic drumming in Stiles’ mind, keeping it at bay long enough to bring forth everything else Stiles is ignoring. Like the fact he just gambled his life, his dad’s life, on this play, on trusting Void, and somehow, someway, it seems to be okay, to _work._ His world slowly crumbles around him, as he can only exist in this weird mind-space, shattering into tiny pieces falling all around and reflecting every doubt, every desire pushed away, then knitting itself back together with promises, with _hope_ , that maybe, _maybe_ , there’s a chance that–

_Thank you..._

It’s barely even a whisper. If he was in control of his body now, he’d be tearing up – Stiles can feel the pressure, the force pulling at his lungs – and if Void is surprised he hides it very well.

_Of course._

They’re getting close to the address if Void slowing down is any indication, the car rumbling almost in sync with Stiles' rabbiting pulse. 

_Stiles, do you want to–_

_Yes._

The second Void parks and the chill slips down their bond as he relinquishes the control, Stiles is ripping out of the truck, leaving the engine on without care. Void safely retreats to his usual space at the back of Stiles’ mind, in the connection thrumming in the shadows under his rune, and Stiles turns his frantic steps straight into the basement.

„Dad!”

And then he’s there – behind the open cage doors, laying on his back and covered in blood – as Stiles rounds a corner.

„DAD!”

The sheriff stirs as Stiles falls to his knees, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest, air saturated with prolonged pain, heavy and tangy, and his vision blurs at how weakly his name leaves his dad’s mouth. He looks up at Stiles, but his gray eyes are unfocused, pained, and he reaches out a shaking hand that Stiles grasps immediately, a shiver down his spine laced with pleasure – it makes him sick, but it disappears almost as soon as it starts, the sensation drawn by Void through the connection, taking it all so Stiles doesn’t have to.

„Hold on, dad, help is on the way--”

His voice shakes and he’s trembling all over, frantically looking for a way to help, to do something, _anything–_

There’s a lot of blood already – it’s a stomach wound and that’s no good, so no good, so much could go badly with those, but it could also save him, Stiles can’t truly tell how life-threatening it is. His magic runs frantic through his body, agitated and almost confused, without direction because Stiles has _no idea_ how to heal someone, he never tried, it’s one of the hardest things to do, he’s barely able to make a plant grow faster _fro god's sake_ , and he can’t do anything now, anything to help, his dad’s bleeding out and his magic is _useless_ –

_You did it once already, Stiles. Use your runes._

Yes, _yes_ , he did. Unconsciously, back then, but maybe he could–

The sirens veil outside, getting ever closer, but Stiles surges forward, pushing away the urge to throw up as he uses his father’s own blood to draw the runes. They are messy and quick, but flash a brilliant golden all the same. Seconds later his dad seems to breathe a little easier, Stiles can feel the bleeding slowing down and his magic rushes eagerly into the working sigils. Then there are medics swarming the space, pulling him away to get to the sheriff and working in fast, efficient moves to secure the wound and get his dad out of there.

Stiles watches it all happen while blinking away tears, desperately hanging onto the slow, steady pulse of comfort down their connection, and when his dad disappears inside the ambulance, Stiles follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood, stabbing, might edge on torture, but it's all overall quite short
> 
> How are y'all feeling? I must say, I feel like everyone could use a friend like Lydia. I love writing her and their friendship, so I do hope it all makes sense and I did Lydia justice. Do you think her reaction was believable? And what do you think will Theo do now? I'm pretty sure that as much as he was boasting about wanting Void Stiles, he really just wanted a darker Stiles, not the fox demon himself, hah, am I right? I will say one thing tho - we're slowly but surely steering more and more off-canon ^^ Are you enjoying the ride? I do hope so, let me know! Any predictions? ^^
> 
> Come find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - lots of behind-the-scenes and different snippets for anyone craving more Voiles! Also, more info about updates and so on here, if you'd like to know about that ^^
> 
> And when the next update will happen, you ask? Hopefully next weekend! Or the one after that. But if not then it means life got to me and I didn't manage to do all the rewrites I wanted to. As I said, I post about my progress on tumblr, so you might want to check there if you get curious. In the meantime, though, I might have a short smutty surprise for y'all, so look out for that ^^ 
> 
> Hope y'all are having fun and keep enjoying the story, we're definitely past the halfway point! All the love ❤


	17. the promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another earlier than expected update! Because I've managed to edit it and I've been sitting on these for so loooong that I don't want to wait more, lmao. Also, I started my internship, so I might post this before I'm swamped, hah. 
> 
> Hope y'all will enjoy ❤

Stiles keeps as close behind the ambulance as possible without causing an accident, hands gripping the wheel and little tremors traveling all through his body – a breakdown stopped only by the force of his muscles and the cool reassurance pouring down the bond. At this point, only the almost visceral fear swimming freezingly-cold through his veins prevents Stiles’ mind from spinning and spiraling into a panic attack. Through it all Void’s presence is light enough to not draw too much attention, yet still the same steadying anchor in their connection that helps Stiles stay afloat of his own raging emotions. And if it was about anything else but his dad fighting for his life Stiles would be almost thankful for the distraction.

When they finally arrive at the hospital, Stiles parks carelessly outside the entrance then rips out of his jeep and flies inside just as the gurney is pushed through the corridors. Vision tunneled with afterimages of bloodied uniform and heart choking up his throat, he doesn't let his dad out of sight as long as he can before doctors stop him just as the gurney disappears behind closed doors and his dad is wheeled off to surgery. And Stiles is forced into stillness in the middle of the corridor, sight blurring more and more with every second, stinging behind his eyelids as the erratic breath rattles in his chest.

The helplessness is carving a new kind of emptiness in his chest, quivering in the muscles of his jaw, and even the cool ghost of touch on his skin can't quite stop the way he's crumbling on the inside. But just as Stiles thinks it's going to finally break him, yet again, Melissa appears beside him with a face full of painful understanding. The look she gives Stiles would probably destroy him if not for the comfort her mere presence brings – it’s like she’s always there when he needs it the most. Like she has always been through his life, ever since he haunted the hospital as a kid, but these days it’s almost like she’s spending more time at work than at home, and even though his situation with Scott is as it is, it's not her fault – she's still family, as close to a second mother as anyone could get, so the sight of her will always ease something in him, even if just a little.

“Oh, Stiles, come here–” She draws him in for a hug, short but as warm and strong as only she can give, and Stiles lets himself be held for the moment, shaking and falling apart as he is on the inside. “It’s going to be alright, but the operation will take some time,” she says, slowly, carefully leaning away to look Stiles in the eye, a far too familiar look in hers. “And you probably won’t go home anyway, will you?”

Arms falling uselessly to his sides, he manages a weak smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace. Melissa sighs, then squeezes his shoulders before letting go.

“Alright, let's find you a quiet spot.”

It ends up being just a slightly more comfortable chair than the plastic ones in the corridor, in one of those waiting areas that echo with age-old suffering embedded into the very walls. Other people sit around but Stiles barely notices them as he plops down heavily into the seat. Wringing his hands together, he worries on his lip almost to the point of blood – not that it in any way helps with the nervous energy filling up his body, thrumming down his veins and never letting his heart slow down. It’s like being trapped on the edge of a panic attack – its freezing grip curling around Stiles’ lungs but not yet squeezing as it could.

Caught within that limbo, Stiles holds onto the thin threads of his sanity as every painful second stretches into eternity, hours passing by without notice. Somewhere along the way Void settles his presence all around Stiles’ shoulders and back – a blanket of cool reassurance and comfort, surprisingly warm despite its temperature. The demon doesn't say anything, but the intangible weight of his ghostly touch speaks for itself. So pushing away the things he’s not ready to acknowledge, Stiles lets himself take what’s offered so freely and leans into Void’s impression, sighing in relief when his mind goes soothingly blank. And in that space, the quiet buzz of his magic and Void's cool presence surrounding him, time seems irrelevant.

Asked for how long it lasted, Stiles wouldn’t be able to tell – swimming somewhere between sleep and reality with only the deeply rooted bond under his rune and the cool impression of a touch keeping him afloat. But when a small nudge in-between his ribs breaks him out of it, Stiles blinks his eyes open to finally see Melissa again, a tired smile on her face. And Stiles is up on his feet before he can blink, lips parting as if to ask – but words die on his tongue, squeezed in the tight hold around his throat.

Melissa seems to get it anyway, that all-knowing, soft look in her dark eyes Stiles is so familiar with.

“Everything went well.”

The words fall and his heart stutters weakly, every beat a ringing bell in the darkness in-between his ribs as Stiles sags with the weight of his relief.

“He's out of the surgery, but you won't be able to visit yet.”

Melissa gives him a regretful smile, all too understanding of how the words strip the little bit of calm Stiles just gained. It is her job, he’s well aware of that. But… still, if he could just–

“I need to see him,” Stiles pleads, voice almost cracking, but when he can see the telltale dip of her head, he hastily adds: “ _Just_ see him, only a look. _Please_ , I don't have to walk in. I just need to know...”

Melissa's gaze is heavy on him, considering and weighing her options – then her shoulders relax on a long sigh.

“Alright, but _just_ a look.”

Stiles doesn't have to see the hard stare to agree immediately, fervent nods following his next words.

“That's all I need.”

And after another second of silent evaluation, Melissa turns around with a muttered “they’re going to fire me one day, I swear”, then gestures him to follow. The walk is short and brisk, Stiles’ nerves singed in acid even through the cool brush under his skin – but the demon stays distant, only a silent observer and calm comfort. When they arrive at the correct room, Melissa looks around, making sure there are no doctors close by, before opening up the door wide enough so he can fit in and peer inside.

True enough, his dad lies in a hospital bed, under white sheets that his skin almost matches in color. He doesn't look good exactly, but that's a given just after surgery, and despite the sight squeezing at his lungs, the relief is undeniable - uncoiling and releasing the tight grip on his heart. Some leftover dread drums in his veins, but Stiles chalks it up to his nerves still being on edge. Taking one last long look at his dad, he backs up from the door and nods to Melissa.

She closes up, then turns to him.

“I guess asking you to go home won't do much, am I right or am I right?”

“You know I can't leave him.”

“Yeah, I know.” Her shoulders sag again, but it doesn't look like she'll argue the point. “Maybe at least try to eat something, take a nap if you can. I still have a few hours left of my shift, so I will let you know if something changes, alright?”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll try to– try to do that...”

He trails off with a vague gesture and a shrug because quite honestly, he's probably too keyed up to sleep anyway, with nerves fried up like that and heart still trying to beat out of his chest.

Melissa takes another long look at him, then gives up on trying to make him do anything and leaves with one last reassurance that he'll be the first to know if anything changes.

The next hours blur together as he haunts the hospital’s corridors just the way he used to so many years ago, time slipping past just like it did when he was still waiting for his dad to come out of surgery. Vaguely, somewhere throughout the passing hours, Stiles notices that night has already changed to the next day, sun filtering through the windows, bright as dawn comes and painting everything in a soft light so scarcely found in such a place. He did try to eat at first, but after managing only something sweet and a little nauseating from the vending machine he went back to just wandering through almost empty corridors.

Finally, Stiles collapses back on the exact same chair, his feet already starting to get sore as the buzzing magic rushes with his blood in the most numbing way possible, muffling out everything else. The exhaustion creeps up on him, heavy on his shoulders and blurry around the edges. He doesn't want to give into it, but it's getting so hard to keep his eyes open.

_I could help you with that, you know_ , Void offers, a low murmur at his ear as the demon settles around Stiles yet again. Light and cool, a deceptively soft touch sliding down his chest and arms. But when Stiles tries to lean more into it, as if he could nuzzle into the ghostly presence, his heart constricts painfully when he _can’t_ – because it’s just that, an impression. Moving with him and in no way psychical enough to grab onto.

Pushing down the aching wave of emotion that sweeps through him, Stiles considers the proposition, taking in the possibility of anything changing any time soon, and the way his body is practically begging him for some sweet rest and– Stiles gives in with a sigh, trying to relax back into the ghostly embrace settled around him – at least as much as he can without shaking apart.

_Alright, just– wake me up if anything changes._

_Of course_ , Void’s presence shifts closer, pressing almost solid, _almost_ what Stiles’ heart weeps for – cool in touch, warm in embrace, and brushing ever so softly over the skin on Stiles’ cheekbone. _Get some rest, little fox, I will be here..._

And with that Stiles drifts away as soon as he closes his eyes, falling into deep, blank sleep.

When he wakes up later, pulled out of slumber by an insistent tug just behind his heart, it takes him a few seconds to reorient himself.

_What– what's happening?_

He scrambles for some kind of purchase in the chair, wiping away the last wisps of sleep from his face and catching on Void’s quiet, cool impression hovering close. If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say the demon seemed wary, almost… tired. And Void’s voice is unbearably low and blank when he speaks up.

_I’m not sure, little fox–_

Stiles’ eyes land on Melissa and another doctor, Liam's stepfather, their faces worried as they speak in hushed tones a little way behind the room his dad occupies.

_–but it seems like it might be important for you._

In a blink, Stiles is up and striding through the corridor, dread slowly frosting over his nerves. Their respective scents grow sourer and sourer the closer Stiles gets, a tangy bite underneath it and an almost visible murky aura surrounding them both. It spikes up with alarm as he nears and they notice him coming. The look in Melissa’s eyes is too familiar for comfort and despite the sudden buzz up of his magic, Stiles rejects what it means.

“What is it? What’s happening?” he asks urgently, coming to stop beside the adults. His hands shake at his sides and Stiles curls them into tight fists, hard enough so the knuckles turn white.

They share a look, one he really doesn't like, before the doctor speaks up.

“Your dad is getting worse.”

His voice is even, calm, but there’s no mistaking the wariness, the gleam of sympathy and worry in dark eyes.

“ _What_?”

Blood stops in Stiles’ veins and he doesn't dare to look at Melissa, to see the confirmation in her face. To see the helplessness that hangs in the air, murky and acidic.

“He seemed well after the surgery, looked to be recovering just fine, but then–” Liam’s stepfather shakes his head, like he doesn't quite understand it himself. “He just got worse.”

“What do you mean _he just got worse_? How is it possible?!” Stiles’ voice rises alongside the shuddering in his body, quivering and cracking, but he can't help himself when the twin heavy looks in their eyes make Stiles’ frozen blood spike into boiling heat. “You need to tell me what's happening to him. Melissa, come on–”

“We can't, Stiles.” Her face is drawn tight, mouth pulled into a thin line. She looks as devastated as when– when– “We don't know, I'm sorry.”

And how– _How_ could they not know? It's _his dad_ , they _have_ to know, Stiles can't lose him now– He can’t–

“There– there has to be something–”

The magic runs agitated through his veins, sparks of electricity spasming down his body, the dread cold and heavy like frosted droplets in his blood. Stiles is already shaking from the whiplash of emotions, worry and shock and vicious need to do something, anything, when he turns around with a hand over his mouth and sees _him_.

Scott _._ Just down the corridor, looking through the glass in the door on the sheriff. And the look on Scott’s face so– so _shocked_ , so disbelieving, as if _Scott_ is devastated– as if, _as if–_

_How DARE he–_

Stiles moves before he even thinks about it, faster and swifter than should be possible. The alpha doesn’t even notice until it’s too late, until Stiles grips Scott by the jacket and slams him right into the wall. The bones in his body quake with the force, a tremble shaking the ground.

“See what he did?!” Stiles’ bleeding soul rages as he pulls and spins around and throws Scott _down_ , barely holding back the magic that would tear him apart. “See what trusting him gets you? And _you trusted him_!” Stiles doesn't see Scott, not really, not with his sight so blurry and the growl rumbling in his chest. “I told you not to and you trusted him! _Happy_ with your choice?!”

Distantly, Stiles is aware of hands grabbing at him, trying to pull him off, but the power doesn't let them, crackling over his knuckles, little sparks of invisible energy that longs for destruction, for vengeance. He could let it out, show them all, show Scott, level the building _to the ground_ –

That's what finally stops him – a flicker of memory, the Eichen house, his home shaking on its fundamentals, the crash-wave of his power rattling everything around. And all the innocent people littering the hospital, _his dad_ just a few doors down the corridor. It clears Stiles’ head enough so he loosens his hold, so the hands grabbing at him can pull him away – his teeth clenched painfully tight so that the hurting, painful bowl of betrayal won’t spew out and spill all over.

Void doesn't comment through the short scruffle, but he stays close to Stiles’ side, watching in contemplating silence, so weirdly retreated in the moment it’s almost easy to forget the demon’s constantly there. Not that it’s something Stiles would even– would _ever_ want – _no_ , the steady presence brushing against his arm is the only thing that keeps Stiles from shaking apart as he steps down the corridor, barely managing not to flee the scene right away. But his dad’s health, his _life_ , is still on the line and Stiles’ own brain screams at the possibility that he _won’t be able to help_.

It's a few seconds later, as Stiles is still trying to regulate the panting breath rattling his chest and slow down his furiously beating heart, that Scott carefully steps closer. They’re both aware of Melissa watching them, of Liam’s stepfather not too far away, of the people passing through, but Stiles pushes them far back from his mind, the boiling heat in his blood barely contained by the itching runes. Void’s presence presses closer, cool and steady, just as Scott twitches on the spot just behind Stiles’ right shoulder. His gaze prickles at Stiles’ neck, rising the little hairs and setting Stiles’ teeth on edge.

“Someone else got hurt,” Scott says, low and soft, but there’s no mistaking the serious undertone, the grave lilt to the sentence.

The heavy dread in Stiles’ stomach spikes up high enough to banish everything else for the moment, a horrible, horrible suspicion on the tip of his tongue.

“Who?”

Please not her, _not_ –

“ _Lydia_. It's Lydia.”

Stiles’ eyes slip shut, heart frozen for a beat that stretches into small eternity before it picks up so heavily the beat rings in his ear, drowning out everything else. Their talk just a few hours earlier feels worlds away.

“That _fucking_ dickhead, that– that– _Fuck!_ ”

His blood boils in furious agitation, magic frenzied by the hurt that steals over his lungs. There's not even an insult, a curse that could fit what's going through his mind, through the vicious power demanding revenge. Stiles’ next words come out gritted through clenched teeth and he refuses to move even a muscle in case it sets off something he won’t be able to rein back.

“What happened?”

“We don't know exactly, but–” Scott hesitates, swallowing heavily and Stiles already suspects– “–she has scab marks on her neck. Claw marks.”

_Theo._

That piece of shit. Of course, Stiles’ first thought has been spot on. No one else had any reason to do such a thing – or even simply had knowledge how to do that, but Theo saw Scott do it. Still – why? Why would he need to get inside Lydia's mind? And how did he manage that after what happened in that parking lot?

Void shifts, a distinct impression of a grimace.

_Those visions wouldn’t last longer than a few hours._

And from what they know, or can guess, Theo heals almost as fast as a were’, so he had enough time.

Stiles’ next breath comes out hissing, constricting and expanding in his chest with an angry buzz of magic.

“What else?”

“She is catatonic,” – _of course,_ Theo would fuck that up too, maybe even _on purpose_ – “We found her at the Nemeton.”

The Nemeton? That catches Stiles’ attention enough to halt the painful revenge he’s been already planning in his head. Why the stupid stump? It might have a small bit of its power back, but nothing Theo could get from it. And sure, the dead chimeras were there but – did he want to cover his tracks now? That doesn't make sense but then–

_Wait_ –

“We?” Sharply, he turns around to face Scott, eyebrows rising to cover up how his heart tightens in his chest. The broken, hopeful expression on the alpha’s face doesn’t help.

“Yeah, it was Parish, actually. He got worried and called me. He found her, I was just there.”

Stiles blinks, momentarily surprised enough to halt his brain for a little – though maybe he shouldn't be. There was something between them, Lydia mentioned it a few times, a crease in her perfect brow – some kind of supernatural link, one none of them understood but that kept them close. And she _was_ on her way to do more research on Jordan’s supernatural status. So it makes sense, considering, but – _well_ , Stiles will need to have a talk with the deputy. Next time Jordan better come to him first.

“Stiles, I wanted to talk,” Scott speaks up beside him, the words tumbling together and wrenching the breath out of Stiles’ lungs.

Shutting his eyes tight, Stiles tries not to succumb to the wave of weariness that almost sweeps him off his feet. He's so not ready for this–

“I should have never listened to him–”

“Don't.” His voice doesn’t even rise above a whisper, but Scott thankfully falls silent. There’s a headache growing inside Stiles’ skull already, tired fingers massaging it out. “Just don't, Scott, not now.”

It also breaks something deep within, a painful reminder of how it all looks now, of the empty space ringing hollow, of the bond snapping and vanishing into bitter nothingness.

Stiles doesn't want to look there, doesn't want to see the evidence of how truly more and more alone he's being. The two most important people in his life are gravely injured, slipping past his fingers, he doesn't know what to do, and now Scott is trying to – what exactly? Seek Stiles’ forgiveness? Atone for his past mistakes, for his lapses of judgement? Admit one wrong and think it’s enough? What, _what_ does he–

It doesn't matter though, not with what Stiles is starting to consider, the idea crawling around his brain and scratching at his ribs. The very thought is enough to make his heart quicken its pace.

“Stiles, I mean it–” Scott tries anyway, because that's how he is, but it's only really making it harder–

Stiles shakes his head, lips bitten hard enough to bruise.

“Maybe, but it doesn't matter. What I may do today–” he gives Scott one look, sees the sadness and bewilderment in his face that only scratches the fresh wound in Stiles' chest more open, “–you'll take back those words.”

And Stiles turns around, not able to bear the expression he’s met with or the mix of hot fury and freezing regret swirling in his gut at the mere thought of the last time he stood face to face with Scott.

“What– Stiles, what do you mean?”

He refuses to answer. Scott will know soon enough, _everyone_ will know, and then he won't be able to escape, ignore, pretend – not anymore. It’s as freeing of a thought as it’s weighing him down.

“Leave it, Scott.” His voice comes out more worn out than harsh, but it still achieves the effect, shutting Scott up. “I need to check on my dad, and Lydia.” He wants to add something more, but the words don't come. Maybe there aren’t any left.

Stiles is already turning to walk away when Scott’s voice stops him once more.

“Okay, okay, just–” the alpha almost sounds begging. "Tell me – if you need anything, if I could help...”

The earnest tone is almost enough to turn him, but the hurt and betrayal are still too fresh, too bright and burning – Stiles doesn’t even look back as he walks away. And his heart pounding against abused ribs serves as a good reminder of what Stiles is considering, deep within the shadows encompassing his chest. The abyss thrills, heated with anticipation.

Unusually quiet through the encounter, Void slips closer, hot on the inside of his skin, cool against his side, and looks at the intent Stiles is hiding – he's curious, very much so, poking at it in a very much foxy fashion, but relents easily just as Stiles swats at him in bubbling irritation. It has an undercurrent of fear, yet Void leaves it alone, letting Stiles take a breath of relief.

_What's the plan now?_

Stiles swallows, legs taking him back to his dad's room.

_Try and see if I can do anything to help._

Void lets out a little hum, a low thoughtful sound that rumbles in Stiles’ own chest, but doesn't comment further. As on edge as he is, Stiles wonders if that means anything, does the demon know something and isn't telling him or–

The thought is cut in half as Melissa steps beside him – she was with Scott when he left the alpha there, but it was easy to guess she would find him next.

“We'll do anything we can to save him, Stiles, I promise,” she says, heavy and laced with conviction, but it trembles on uncertainty that swims bitterly in her scent.

So he asks–

“Will you let me in?”

–and meets her bewildered eyes with a conviction that's only half-real.

“You know I can't–”

“You said anything to save him.” Stiles’ voice doesn't even crack now, hard from the magic relentless in his veins. Yet it's still a struggle to hold back the gnawing desperation as he keeps her gaze. “Let me in. Maybe I can't help him, but maybe– maybe I can do _something_.” Biting down on his lip, _hard_ , Stiles shakes his head in something too close to defeat to be comfortable. “I don't know what, but– maybe at least I’ll find out _what's_ wrong.”

Melissa gives him a long look then, hands at her hips and eyes heavy, but at least she doesn’t disregard him right away. It seems like she wants to say something, like she does see right through him – how desperate he is, how it's making him fall apart on the inside, how truly unstable he feels yet tries with all he has to keep himself from breaking at the seams. And she caves in.

“Alright, but be quick about it.”

Then she opens the door, yet again, and closes it softly after he slips inside, staying right outside to keep him covered. If not for the storm of feelings already racking through his body, Stiles would probably tear up over how much faith she still has in him. Instead, he steels his spine, takes one long breath and steps beside his dad's bed.

Stiles’ heart constricts in his chest at the sight of his dad, so much worse now than those hours ago – pale and sick, green blotches spreading over his skin. Sour pain saturates the air, rising bile in Stiles' throat, still – he hardens his resolve and reaches for his dad's hand. He's not even sure what he's doing exactly, but there must be _something_ he can do.

With a long inhale, Stiles focuses on the pain, on its pulse and throb, on the way it swims just under the skin – and then _takes it._ The assault of sensory input almost drowns him, a flood of power and sweetness and cutting hurt. He tries to think about what to do next, what he should focus on, but it's so hard to work through that sickening, delightful feeling – and he can't push that down either, it would defeat the whole point.

_Try to look for the source, Stiles, search for it, search for where it's concentrated._

Void somehow cuts through, a steady voice guiding his thoughts. So Stiles follows and grasps the wisps of pain he's drawing in, looking, desperately, for that source, for why– why is his dad getting worse? But–

It's not working.

His sight is blurry when Stiles opens his eyes, the sensation dulling into a throb, an echo – and he knows no more than he did before taking the pain.

_Don't be so hard on yourself, little fox, it's not an easy thing, not without years of experience._

The voice is unusually quiet, a soft rasp against his senses, and Stiles blinks away a few stray tears, hot and fierce against his eyelids. Then he straightens, a familiar resolve settling in.

_Could you do it? If I let you in, could you find out?_

His heart pounds with newfound flicker of hope, unstable and wavering, but it's crushed just as swiftly as it appeared with the sour regret trickling down the connection.

_I don't think it will work like that._ Void sounds strained, harsh – not in a cruel way, but as if he’s holding something back; or holding _onto_ something. _I have already used up what I could on that little not-wolf. If I could truly feed then yes, but through you, Stiles– I'm still trapped, my abilities are extremely limited._

_But– but you told me you could_ feed _through me. So why–_

And Stiles would hate the way his own inner voice trembles if only his heart didn’t skip a few beats in the tight hold around his chest, heavy despite how fast it runs – from the disappointment, the absolutely crushed hope, an echo of betrayal, because _why would he lie_ about that, why–

Void huffs, much more derisive and irritated than Stiles could’ve predicted – and he flinches at the tone, barely resisting the urge to curl in on himself. It feels like it’s directed at him even if it isn’t, not really. Void’s voice is even harsher, hoarse, as he explains roughly:

_I can in the way that I feel it, that the hunger is easier, but I'm not getting any power from that, Stiles. As I said – it's only–_

_-a taste..._

_Yes. I can't tell anything more than you._

His eyes falling shut, Stiles has to press his lips together to stop the sob from escaping. _Fuck–_ Fuck all that supposed power if he’s so utterly useless when it matters most. And the cool brush of a touch on his skin is not helping, not this time, not when it’s _barely there_.

Stiles shakes his head, wiping away the few tears that managed to escape, and gathers what's left of his pretty much non-existent will. There is no time to waste on self-pity and giving up. Stiles _will_ find a way, whatever it may be – he won't, _can’t_ even entertain a possibility that there’s nothing he could do about it. That thought is poison – and just potent enough to take away the two most important people just as easily as the threats currently working on doing just that.

Walking out of the room wakes an almost physical pain, everything in him screaming with the effort to tear himself away from his dad. The way he looks – skin painted sick and chest barely rising – is burned under Stiles’ eyelids, but maybe that's exactly the motivation Stiles needs to keep going.

Brushing the last fallen tears away, Stiles rasps his knuckles on the door, breath still ragged and rattling in his lungs. Melissa takes one look at him and her shoulders fall just as Stiles makes the smallest “no” shake of his head. The look in her eyes burns on the side of his face.

“You should go home, Stiles–” Softness sounds in her low voice, laced with obvious worry and understanding. “–get some rest. You can't go on like that–”

“ _No._ ” This time his refusal is hard, determined. “I have to– _Lydia_ , I have to see her.”

He _promised_. Was it even a day ago? Hours? Just as he told her he would never let anything hurt her – and here they are.

_You can't control everything that happens, Stiles, you know that,_ Void huffs, an edge of exasperation in the low murmur.

And of course Stiles knows, but that doesn't change how it feels right now, so soon after he said those words, after they sat curled on the couch and he spilled his heart out.

Melissa, still standing at his side, looks about ready to be done with him, but she's also aware enough to know that he would do it anyway with or without her help. So with a great inhale of a breath, she murmurs a quiet “I'm going to regret this” under her nose and turns, walking away and fully expecting him to follow. And he does, nerves fried with impatience as Melissa goes up to a reception desk, checking which room Lydia is in, then gives him the number with a pointed look.

“Natalie is there,” she says just before he turns to go, “I don't know if she will let you in.”

Stiles nods sharply and steps away to find the correct room. He didn't think about that and it might be a problem, but still – he will do what he has to, even if Lydia's mom won't approve. He'll just have to distract her long enough to try and help, try to see _if_ he even can. But there must be something–

Yet with every step he takes his body grows heavy, feet dragging against the floor, distinct tightness around his lungs – because it's Lydia's mind that was tampered with, her very consciousness that is lost, and Stiles–

His magic thrums in his veins, a thunder of power – able to invoke runs, cast wards, draw on and manipulate everything around him, create even, all within the power of his imagination, but minds – those Stiles never dared to tamper with. He can feel and taste and feed on feelings, on emotions, but to see into a mind, to connect – it's not something he can do, _want to do_ , that's not a part of his magic. Or at least that’s what he’s been telling himself. It’s obvious, though, that there's a potential to command, to bend others to his will, but it's a possibility he never even wants to entertain, rejecting the very idea straight away – and it's not something that would help him now. Lydia is lost and he might not be able to find her.

As he nears the room, Stiles looks for the bond that just solidified itself such a short time ago. It's there, of course, as it was when it has grown into this rope, thick and sure, but it's also very, very quiet. Still – seeing it, feeling how rooted it is, gives him hope.

When Stiles rounds the corner he can immediately tell which room Lydia is in, not only thanks to the bond, but also because seeing Jordan standing right outside is a dead giveaway. It stops Stiles in his way for a moment, but then again – that may just help him. He needs to take only a few steps closer before the deputy notices him.

“Scott told me,” Stiles says before Jordan can even open his mouth, coming to a stop right beside the man.

The light, green eyes regarding Stiles are careful and clear, a gentle frown on Jordan’s brow.

“And you know who did this.” It's basically a statement not a question.

“Theo, the dickhead, who else.”

That fucking bastard. Even just thinking about it rushes Stiles’ blood into a boil, agitated in its anticipation. The fucker should have to pay for this and with the way glee is trailing down the connection, Void seems fully on board with the idea. But that’s not why Stiles is here now and a quick look around reveals the corridor to be strangely empty.

“Where’s Natalie?”

“Lydia's mom? She just left to talk with the doctors.”

Stiles blinks up at Jordan, but the surprise quickly washes away for a flicker of anxious excitement for the perfect chance. _Good_ , he might even have enough time.

“I may be able to... help.” He licks over his lips, the nervous energy almost making his voice shake, before Stiles meets Jordan's eyes and holds them. “If you can, don't let anyone come in.”

Parrish doesn't look away, keeping his gaze as he searches Stiles for deception – or for confirmation that he truly can do something. His eyes stop, for a second, over Stiles’ arm – trailing to his shoulder and neck – and Stiles knows the deputy is remembering all the tattoos he has now.

“I'll see what I can do,” he decides finally.

And Stiles lets out a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding. Jordan is still looking at him though, serious and worried and the line of his shoulders tense.

“Do what you need,” he adds with a simple, short nod that Stiles gives right back, even though he’s all but trembling inside.

Then he bites the bullet with one last breath and walks inside – a choked up gasp leaves his mouth the second he catches Lydia’s face. The sight of her is almost worse than his dad’s. Not because she _looks_ worse, but precisely because she almost looks _right –_ if not for her wide open, completely vacant eyes, as if there's no person behind them. It's like a punch right to his sternum, to see her so still, so _lost_ , forcing all the breath out of his lungs. She can't be lost, not Lydia, she can't–

_Will I be able to help her?_

Stiles sounds just as wrecked and weak as he feels, but Void doesn't answer for a long moment – and when he does, his voice is flat.

_I don't know. Maybe._

But that's a _huge_ _maybe –_ he doesn't have to add, it's clear enough in the quiet stillness of their bond. Void always seems to have so much faith in him, telling Stiles that he can do anything with sure, steady belief, but now it seems they are skirting the very limits of his power.

That won't stop him though.

So Stiles looks for the bond, thick like a rope, an impression of lilies, of mourning, and comes to sit on the edge of the bed, taking her cold hand and trying to warm it up with his own. It looks almost as pale as his.

Taking a long-drawn breath, Stiles closes his eyes. He puts all of his focus on the bond with Lydia, so freshly forged into a true tether, and tries to– tries to follow it, flow along and reach the end, reach her through this connection. It's working, but also it's _not_. Stiles can tell she's here, she's on the bed beside him, she's _still_ there, but he can't touch her mind, can't even glimpse it, he’s hovering over the bond, looking into the darkness it disappears into, getting lost in the blank emptiness. An abyss.

Stiles takes in a sharp breath, squashing that hopeful spark that ignited at the flicker of an idea.

_Could you reach her?_ He asks, breathless and desperate, even though he's aware it's probably impossible with how weak Void seems to be now. Still, he can't _not_ ask. _I know you can manipulate minds, I know you can access them, that's part of your magic. Please, if you could only–_

He bites his lips, _hard,_ sweet metallic taste flooding his mouth as his hand grips Lydia's probably tight enough to bruise.

_Stiles_ , Void’s voice is strained, something heavy, chill-inducing under it, _I told you I don't have much of my abilities._

_But you have some, maybe you could_ – Stiles stutters, has to take a breath even though he's talking in his mind– _I would give you as much power as you need._

The offer, the _plea_ rings in the following silence, stretching in-between their shared self. Void stays quiet, apprehensive on the other side of their connection.

_I'm not sure I can access her mind,_ he answers finally, but there's something more behind that, a hesitancy that's so unlike the demon. It's worrying, it truly is, but Stiles is desperate enough to try _anything_.

_We're accessing each other through our connection, right? Then maybe you can follow the bond I have with her? It has to be possible–_

A shudder shakes Stiles’ shoulders and he doesn't even bother to wipe away the tears that started to trickle down his face. It feels like he's falling apart on the inside.

_Maybe_ , Void amends, yet his voice is heavy, _we can't be sure anything will work, but, Stiles..._

He pauses for a long, long moment that seems to stretch into eternity, a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap. And Stiles waits with bated breath, tries to keep his breath even and not fall into that cold desperation completely, knowing perfectly well that if Void’s so hesitant about it, then it must be more important than he can imagine. It’s even harder to stop himself from wondering just _how much_.

Finally, Void’s words slice through the silence – and right through Stiles’ very own heart.

_If I try... I may not be able to come back to you._

And the world shatters, splinters apart right before Stiles’ eyes, falling into suffocating darkness that grips his throat in a chokehold. The very blood in his veins seems frozen still.

_But_ – it's not possible– _but my rune, the connection–_

_I'm afraid it might snap in the process, little fox._

Void’s voice is so soft, so tender, like the cool caress trailing over Stiles’ cheek that he knows so well by now – one he may _never feel_ again – but there's steel under it, a layer of frost that chills to the bone. And in that moment, facing the possibility that he may lose just about everyone, Stiles refuses to believe it. It's not a possibility. He won't let his nightmares become true, _none_ of them.

_I won't let it happen, it won't break_ , he puts all the viciousness, all the seething anger born of long-festering fears into his voice. _I will enforce the connection, the rune, I–_

He stops. Mind gone devastatingly blank.

If they do this, if it doesn't work, or even if it does, Stiles might still lose – and he may lose what he thought was a constant, a fixed point in his life, something, _someone_ , he got so used to, wanted to have so close, _closer, so much closer–_

And all at once, Stiles understands. _This is it._ This is where it's been leading up to. All his fears and all of his desires right in front of his face.

Stiles swallows, licking over his chapped lips – that shivery, hot sensation living in his chest trembles in anticipation.

_Please, try– try to help Lydia, and I–_

A beat.

A pause.

A shuddering breath.

_I will free you. I will get you out.  
_

Their connection goes deathly quiet. So much so that the silence rings in his ears like sirens, bouncing in the shadows of his chest, stretching and stretching and _stretching_ until seconds later Stiles starts to panic, starts to fear it just snapped now, that it– 

_Stiles–_

Void’s voice is as cutting as a knife pressed into Stiles’ jugular, into the frantic beat just under his skin. Deadly. Dangerous.

_I mean it._

Stiles knows what he's doing – that's he's essentially making a deal, a promise, one he won't be able to take back or twist away or pretend it didn't happen. But maybe– 

Maybe Stiles doesn't want to.

He thinks back to those first dreams, from so long ago – remembers all at once that they've been here before, remembers what he repressed, what words were used, whispered into his ear on a hot breath.

_We had a deal, right?_ The nerves are threatening to drown him, singed and fired up white-hot, but maybe it's his only chance. _Do we have it, still?_

It's not really about _that_ deal – he's still not sure if it was real, if it _is_ real, everything the demon told him and is still telling him, if he can even truly trust it though he _wants_ to, so badly. So– maybe it is about that deal. And about every other promise pressed into his skin, into the deepest corners and crevices of his very soul.

A trickle of _something_ trails along their connection, shivery and hot, an intent that coils heated tension in Stiles’ stomach.

_Seems like we do._

His voice is bordering on sinister, sharp like a blade, the edge of it running down his spine. It's leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Wholly sinful in the way Stiles just wants to arch into it.

_Then help her and I– and I will let you out._

And it’s almost like a physical sensation – how it’s settling between them, a kind of anticipation, nervous and excited, just waiting to fully unravel. But Stiles swallows around it and looks back down to Lydia.

_Alright, little fox, I do hope you will keep your word.  
_

Stiles takes a shuddering breath, then redirects his focus back to the bond, wrapping his power around it. Reaching for his connection with Void, Stiles lets himself feel how deeply it's rooted inside his chest, his soul, his heart, and _pulls_ it in. The cool impression of Void’s presence slips right through him and follows the bond, a trickle of frost covering it.

Stiles shut his eyes even tighter, trembling with the loss of his shadow, then _hopes_. Fiercely – with all he has, with all he is – that it will, somehow, work.

✦✧✦✧

The task proves complicated without the full range of his powers. Following the frail image of a bond he can barely detect, a distant echo of mourning and lilies and grief keeping him only somewhat tethered as Stiles pulls him through. It wouldn’t be possible otherwise, but Void is still vaguely surprised it _is_ working. Such a feat for a Spark so young and inexperienced. Yet Stiles wouldn’t be who he is if he wasn’t capable of the unthinkable. Wouldn’t be Void’s chosen mate, the one and only worthy of such a title.

But it's also just that bit frustrating. Having to use up the last wisps of his energy for a girl he couldn't care less about and couldn’t even be sure of completing the task. Yet here he is, pushing through bottomless darkness without any direction but for the faint impression Stiles is pouring into him. And that’s the thing. Void’s here only because Stiles cares, because his boy finally reached the point of no return. If it was anyone else, Void wouldn’t trust their word – but Stiles is a fox in his own right, he will keep his word. Of that, Void is completely sure. The rest can be dealt with when he can finally put his hands on that lovely, lovely skin of his little fox. First, though, there’s his own part of the deal to fulfill.

The banshee’s mind is truly a mess, scattered and splintered apart – that pitiful excuse of a were’ did a real number on her. Crude and careless, how he tore his way through, no finesse or experience behind the action. And Void needs to find a way to navigate through that. Following the bond could get him just that far too, now he would have to find her among this mess. Or rather – the conscious part, the one that’s lost. And without his powers Void has only his knowledge to guide him. Still – he hasn't lived this long just because of what he could do with his magic.

So he floats – looking over the torn thoughts, thinking about what he knows of the banshee and drawing on the power Stiles steadily flows into him. It’s bright and scorching, so unlike his own, but somehow works all the same to propel him forward.

They found her at the Nemeton, didn't they?

It's a stretch, but he needs to start somewhere and her consciousness might just have been left there. Besides, the old stump had its own ways of messing with the supernatural, it wouldn't be surprising if it truly has affected her mind.

So that’s what he tries to find in her mind, how she would think of it, where the last memory resides, and a few seconds later Void's eyes blink open to the clearing – the real one, or its faithful imitation at least, he supposes, there's no reason for it to look like the one he knows, the one he created, not when he can’t make it and pull her there. It doesn't matter though, what matters is – she’s there, sitting beside it, curled in on herself. Dirty, ragged and trembling. She looks afraid, eyes blurry and distant. Trapped in her own mind. That doesn't bode well, but it may be just the circumstances.

Void approaches slowly, but there's nothing hesitant in his steps.

“You need to wake up, banshee.”

Dull green eyes blink up at him, her brows furrowed, and it takes only a second for her confusion to turn into suspicion, for the bleary look to shift into sharpness Void can appreciate.

“You're not Stiles.”

“Of course I'm not.”

He doesn't even try to soften his voice – it stays harsh and rasping as he regards her coolly, considering the shake to her shoulders and the mix of emotions in the barely detectable scent.

“But I'm here to help," he adds finally, keeping her shocked gaze with cool calm. "You need to wake up, and I can bring you back to the real world.”

“What do you mean?” Her brows furrow, as if she's not exactly aware of the circumstances, of where they are, of why he's even there.

Releasing a sharp breath, Void wills himself to be patient, just for a moment longer.

“You are trapped inside your own mind. Think, banshee, why are you here?”

She stops in her tracks, body slightly uncoiling from her tight curl at the base of the Nemeton. The suspicion clearly doesn't go away in full, but she considers his words, visibly trying to remember – he sees the exact second she realizes the truth. But it's not enough, of course, as her far clearer gaze locks on Void, her posture growing rigid with tension.

“Why should I trust you?”

This again, of course. He barely holds back the urge to roll his eyes.

“I'm here only because Stiles asked me to. Rest assured, I didn't start caring.”

Their little chat is starting to get tiring – Void can feel the pull already, the weakening link keeping them connected and the vicious force trying to tear him away. He's running out of time.

“Come on, banshee,” –he reaches out one hand, holding back a grimace– “what worse could I do to you?”

She doesn't take it, narrowing her eyes and mouth pulled tight.

“You'd find something.”

The growl builds up, but he doesn't let it out, instead clenching his already sharpening teeth.

“You have no idea how much I'm risking, trying to save you now.”

His voice, though, Void doesn't stop that snarl, doesn't want to, relishing in the terrified shudder that goes through the banshee. But the pull from outside is starting to flare at the edges of his senses, more and more insistent. Baring his teeth in a grimace, Void gives the girl a dark look - if she won't get it now, his patience will end here.

“We're running out of time – you better not make me regret this. Will you accept? Or do you want Stiles to wake up alone?”

She startles like she didn't think about it. Her eyes widen, but her mouth stays pressed together in a thin line, a look close to wonder passing through her face.

“You truly care about him,” she muses, almost to herself.

Void doesn't dignify that with an answer, reaching out his hand yet again with narrowed eyes, trying not to give in to that pull that wants to break him away too soon. But she _still won't move_ , regarding him with that sharp look as if she'll find the answers if she looks long and hard enough. With his nerves slowly seared at the ends and the connection trembling, _straining_ in the depth of his chest, Void is just about ready to just grab and drag her out anyway when something in her demeanor finally changes. The banshee straightens, new resolve in the curve of her spine, and she reaches up to grip his hand.

Tightening his own fingers around her petite palm, Void's eyes narrow down at her.

“Good choice.”

Then he draws on the connection that's still binding him to Stiles, on the power pouring through it, and pulls on the banshee's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes you read that right. Almost there!  
> So... how do y'all feel? It's a bit of a transition chapter here and I'm not fully satisfied with it, but hopefully the promise makes up for it, hah. Also, I hope y'all aren't too mad at me for the cliffhanger, lmao, I had to xD Feel free to scream at me in the comments!
> 
> Not chapter related, but I just started my internship on top of my regular uni classes and it will probably take over my life this month, so I can't promise any schedule with updates, sorry! I'll update when I find the time to work on LitA, for now I just hope it won't impact my wrists too badly. Wish me luck! 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - lots of behind-the-scenes, different snippets for anyone craving more Voiles and more info about updates and so on here ^^
> 
> Also, over 10k hits, whooo! And almost 500 kudos with over 200 subscriptions?!! I really can't believe it, hooooow? It bears saying here - y'all are truly the best. The amount of support and love for this story is just, I can't even describe how happy it makes me, I'm truly blessed and can't thank you enough ❤ Hope it will continue to be enjoyable to read, all the love ❤


	18. finally here again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like December is really out there kicking our asses, huh? At least it is mine, lmao. Anyway, my brain finally cleared somehow this evening, after being clouded from exhaustion for weeks, so I just sat for hours rewriting and editing this out and I hope it will be a good read for y'all. There might be lots of typos and others there but oh well, I want to post it today, before the next exhausting week starts, lmao. 
> 
> Hope y'all will enjoy ❤

Time seems to stretch into a crawl, painfully slow as Stiles waits, no sign of any change besides the frost spreading ever colder and colder over their bond. His heart pumps all too fast and all too heavy against his lungs, constricting his breath to small pants, and Stiles is only _barely_ able to control the sting burning at the back of his eyelids.

It's a special kind of agony, to not have the slightest idea about what's happening, if it's even working or will he lose both of them. But Stiles can't let himself wallow in despair, _no_ , he needs to stay focused, to flow his magic down the bond – down the strained connection to Void that seems to stretch and stretch, thinner and thinner and thinner, lodging painfully in Stiles’ throat. The fact it’s still there, still ringing clear when he plucks it, is a small comfort amongst the painful grip of worry on his heart. And even then, even with the hollow ache in his chest and the shadows writhing in uncertainty, Stiles hopes against all odds that it will work. That he will be able to hold onto their connection – keep it there, keep it _safe_. As much as everything about their current situation scares him, Stiles doesn't want to lose it. Any of it.

When finally something trickles over the bond, Stiles can't be sure how much time has passed – it feels like an eternity for him, but it might have been only minutes. The frost starts retreating, slinking back with a familiar chill going down his body as Void’s presence slips through, a murmur on the wind instead of the usual growl of thunder. The connection tying them together strains under the pressure, under the power gliding through, too weak to hold on as it used to so easily. And it's painful, the way Void _just_ – practically disappears, fading away as soon as the faint impression of his cool presence pours along the bond, along Stiles’ senses, to then fall away – barely there on the end of the connection, an echo that's almost lost in the sheer agony of the shadows in Stiles’ chest. But at the same second any semblance of Void melts away with the frost – Lydia takes a breath.

Stiles scrambles at her side immediately, grasping her hand tighter and putting the cutting worry for the quivering bond with his demon on a backburner for now. Forcing himself into the moment to not drown in the flood of pure fear filling up his lungs.

“Lydia?”

Her gasp rings out in the silence as Lydia blinks rapidly, trying to look around with wild, unfocused eyes–

“Hey, hey, it's alright,” –Stiles squeezes her hand, lightly grasping at her shoulder in hope it’ll help ground Lydia– “you're all right.”

She finally catches his gaze, breath heavy and bright green eyes still a little frantic as she takes him in, reaching up and fingers curling around his wrist as if she needs to anchor herself. The thought is enough to dislodge the air from his lungs yet again and so Stiles tries to smile as he blinks the tears away, worry and relief still very much fervent in his veins.

“Stiles?” Her voice sounds weak, quivering – like she doesn't quite believe it, like she needs to be sure, absolutely sure. But there’s a wary spark underneath it that ties rope-like around Stiles’ throat.

“Yeah, it's me,” he says, clearing his throat after how hoarse and cracking it came out, and puts as much reassurance into his smile as possible.

It takes a moment, her sharp green eyes taking Stiles in with surprising clarity, but finally Lydia seems to find what she was looking for and squeezes back his hand, a ghost of smile staining her lips. They hold their gazes, a thousand of unspoken thoughts passing through, too raw and complicated to express, making Stiles’ sight even more blurry than it already was – but it looks like some wetness has gathered at Lydia’s dark eyelashes too. She sniffles slightly, body relaxing back into the bed almost on its own, and when a wet little chuckle escapes her mouth, Stiles follows right after. It feels ridiculous, how they break out into these rasping giggles full of tears, but it’s good, it’s freeing – a cool blanket of relief falling over their shoulders. So Stiles lets himself bask in it, for the moment, lets the realization that Lydia is here – that she’s safe and _sane_ – set in and chase away the worry of losing her.

But their chuckles finally die down and the world rushes back in, demanding attention. The abyss in his chest writhes and Stiles’ heart drops all the way down to his stomach. And he doesn’t want to ask, he really doesn’t, but–

“Do you remember what happened?”

Lydia just looks at him, her brows pulling into a frown as she tries to sit up. Stiles is right there to help her, fluffing up the pillows so she can lean on them. Immediately her hand goes to the back of her neck, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Theo,” is the only thing she says, a bitter edge to her voice.

The rage boils hot again, but Stiles does his best effort to push it down.

“Yeah, I figured that, too. _Damn it_.” He breathes out heavily, trying to expel the anger with a long exhale. “Do you– _How_ did it happen?”

Her hand slips back down from her neck to fall on the white sheets and Lydia shakes her head. Carefully, Stiles cradles it in his own, but she returns the grip almost immediately.

“He found me in the library. I was looking into what Parrish is–” her lips curl up into a wry grin “–a Hellhound, by the way–”

Stiles blinks, the information settling in quickly with a curious little thrill through his blood, a spike of interest from his magic, before he puts the sensation away and focuses back on Lydia.

“–And he knocked me out right there. I barely woke up again before–” She cuts herself off, free hand twitching up yet again as if she wanted to reach for the scabs. Her fingers curl into a weak fist as she stops the move, lips trembling even when pressed tightly.

Stiles’ jaw clenches with the effort not to grip Lydia’s hand too strongly and the anger rushes hotly down his veins, little sparks sizzling along his nerves.

“I knew it. That fucking asshole.”

Looking away, just so she doesn't have to witness the absolutely vicious fury that must’ve surely twisted his features, Stiles tries to shake off at least part of it, a choice of curses following in his thoughts. He gets interrupted quicker than expected.

“ _Stiles_.”

And Lydia’s voice sounds different now, strained with tension, she almost seems... _worried_. When Stiles reluctantly turns back, her hazel eyes are serious, settling on him in a way that feels palpable and weighted.

One rattling beat of his heart rings out in his ear before the question falls:

“Did you ask him to do it?”

But no accusation sounds in her tone – it’s the opposite, in fact; soft, barely above a whisper, yet the question hangs in the air like the tangy taste of her concern. And with how tender her eyes are on him, she _must_ know, know perfectly well, how heavy of an admission it is for Stiles.

He has to swallow down the sudden lump that blocked his throat – heart pounding with bruising force against his ribs, in those writhing, pulsing shadows – before he gathers the courage to admit that:

“Yes.”

Stiles did. Knowing what it may cost him, cost _them_ , and choosing to– to trust. In their bonds – the rope-thick laced with lilies and the one woven from the very shadows pulsing achingly in-between his ribs, embedded deep, deep within his core. And he could’ve broken it, _Stiles_ chose the possibility of it snapping and tried to hold onto it with everything he had. It’s still there, somehow, silent and echoing, but _it’s there_. Which means Stiles has trusted not only their connection and their intertwined will to uphold it, but trusted _Void –_ again – with helping Lydia and it _worked_.

His heart skips a heavy beat at the significance of the realization that settles on his shoulders then.

Stiles has trusted the demon for a long time now, it seems. Pushed and rejected the idea of it, but the trust was there – or the overwhelming desire for that trust to bloom and become true, as least. And now, _now_ – Void has trusted _Stiles_ to uphold his word.

It all feels like it should seem grandeur, should shake him like the confession he made just barely a day ago, but it leaves on a breath and feels just like one. A long, drawn-out exhale after holding the air for far too long.

And surprisingly enough, Lydia softens at his admission, hand squeezing back his own.

“So he wasn't lying about that, at least,” she says, almost _casual_ , and it snaps Stiles’ mind back to attention.

“ _What_? Lydia, what did he tell you?”

His voice takes on the slightest, frantic quality, but then the most mind-boggling thing happens – Lydia smiles, the curl to her lips tiny yet startling all the same, especially with the weight her gaze holds.

“Not much. That we don't have time. And that–” here she hesitates, biting at her lip, “–that I have no idea how much he’s risking.”

Stiles’ muscles go rigid on instinct, barely holding back a shudder. The abyss in his chest cries out, spreading and frosting over his lungs.

“Stiles… what did he mean?”

Lydia goes back to that soft, gentle tone again, a worried look in her bright eyes, and that's enough to push Stiles into spilling everything that happened in the past day. Letting Void in, his dad getting hurt, his inability to do _anything about it_ and finally – what this stunt of bringing her back might have cost them, cost _Stiles_.

The shadows in his chest curl around his heavily beating heart, cold and hollow, weeping at the bond that’s so dull and quiet it’s more like an echo than how it felt just hours ago – strong and pulsing and so intense Stiles could lose himself in it. The thought closes up his lungs and his words taper down to an almost whisper, weakly slipping past numb lips.

“It hadn't snapped, the connection, but... I can’t– I can’t feel him anymore.”

Stiles’ throat closes up with the words and it’s terrifying how voicing it makes his whole body shake, makes his eyes sting and lips tremble on shuddering breath. He reaches up to swipe on his eyelids on instinct, sniffling softly into his own palm. It feels like it should be embarrassing, especially when Lydia’s fingers curl around one of his hands and squeeze reassuringly, but Stiles can’t find it in himself to be ashamed now.

Silence falls in-between them, not wholly uncomfortable, but noticeably strained. And maybe that’s because Stiles didn't admit what's the deal he truly made, not yet, not when it’s tied so tightly around his lungs he can barely breath, but he will have to – and even though Lydia has been nothing but outstandingly understanding, he can’t help but fear. Fear what she’d think about it, think about him – that she would turn away when he just got her back.

And Lydia notices, like she always does.

“What are you not telling me?”

Her hand tightens around his fingers, reassuring, and her eyes stay so soft, so encouraging. Like nothing he can tell will change the way she thinks about it, about _him_. Like she already _knows_ and is telling him that it’s okay. Stiles’ vision blurs as he licks over his lips, throat parched and scratchy.

Under the inky-black rune, his heart stutters on an uneven beat.

“I'm going to release him.”

The words ring out in the air, seemingly bouncing off the walls and coming back like a shot even though Stiles’ voice stayed quiet, hoarse.

Lydia tenses up minutely, the atmosphere getting so thick it could be cut with a knife, but it lasts only for a few seconds. Then the tension releases, her shoulders sag, and that tiny smile comes back.

“I was kind of expecting that, to be honest,” she admits, even a trace of humor in her voice, before she’s straightening again, familiar steel in her spine. “I'm going with you.”

And his brain stutters to a stop.

What–

“No, Lydia–”

“I'm going.” She lifts up a definite finger, all the force of her eyes pinpointed on him. “Don't you even try to go without me.”

For a second Stiles wants to protest – it feels all too personal, too intimate, to let anyone be there, at the moment of his undoing – but Lydia squeezes his hand and her eyes soften again, and just like that all of his defenses fall apart.

“Alright,” shaking his head, Stiles can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face, “okay.”

The hollow space in his chest squirms, calling out for what's missing, but maybe he can bear it for a while longer, knowing he won't have to do it alone. Then Lydia’s mom comes in, notices her daughter awake and sane and smiling – and both of them fall into each other, tears in their eyes.

Stiles retreats carefully and as quietly as possible to not ruin the moment, but right before he closes the door Lydia sends him one last sharp look of “don’t you dare leave without me” and the painful echo in-between his ribs seems a little warmer again.

The door clicks shut after him and with a long, winded breath, Stiles takes a quick look around. Jordan is still there, of course, a question in his eyes as their gazes meet and Stiles nods, watching how the deputy breathes out in relief, then makes his way over.

“How is she?” is the first thing Jordan asks about, holding himself straight and tense, visible worry in his eyes.

Stiles can relate, the leftover jitters of his own still tight around his chest. Now, with the last wisps of warmth fading away, it hits him how cold and empty it feels. Without the steady presence on the other end steadily flowing through the connection it’s all-too-quiet – and only making the aching sensation of loss persist.

“Shaken, but well enough,” Stiles answers, eyes fleeting back to the closed door. “As well as anyone would be in this situation, I guess.”

Jordan eyes him carefully now, a barely-there crease in between his eyebrows.

“Yeah, it was pretty serious, wasn't it? How did you do it?”

Stiles licks over his lips nervously, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and fidgets uselessly in his place. It's even harder to concentrate now, with his thoughts all over the place and all the repressed emotions raging up a storm in between his ribs. Jordan has to repeat Stiles' name to properly catch his attention again and when Stiles looks at the deputy, the curiosity is already starting to be overtaken by concern. And he definitely doesn't need that, not now.

“I had help,” Stiles confesses, arms crossing around his aching chest in a poor imitation of what he craves. And considering where everything's going, he might as well inform Jordan beforehand.

“But there wasn't anyone with you...'' Jordan says it slowly, sizing Stiles up and down – he puts it together quickly enough. With a heavy sigh settling in his shoulders. “Or there was, wasn't there."

“Yeah, you could say that– that there was...” And how the past tense _hurts_. Stiles rubs harshly at his chest, trying to blink away the stinging blurriness.

“Okay, but... How does that even work?”

Jordan sounds so confused and innocent – the laugh that leaves Stiles at the words is hard to describe. It gurgles in his throat, sounding all too broken, and he has to shake his head to focus. To answer before that flaring concern in Jordan's energy can turn into action.

“We have a connection, like a psychic link I suppose. A bond, a–” Why does it hurt so fucking much to speak about it? Digging into his core deeper and deeper, expanding the echoing chasm in his chest. Stiles clears his throat, hoping to lessen the hoarse quality to his voice at least some. “Anyway, he's trapped right now and I just asked him to use up what he had left to help Lydia and he did, so...”

Giving a heavy sigh, Stiles slumps his shoulders and looks up to the ceiling. Fear and anticipation run rampant through his veins, little sparks of electricity buzzing in tandem with the magic in his blood. The anxiety makes his heart pound painfully against his bruised ribs. But when he chances a look at Jordan, Stiles finds only understanding, the deputy's head tilted back in realization.

“So you're going to release him.”

The words still send a shudder down his body – cool gooseflesh on his skin and heat squirming in his gut.

“Yeah, I wanted to go alone right now, but Lydia wouldn't let me. We're going as soon as she's cleared.”

Jordan gives him a long, considering look, something heavy and calculating in his expression. Then he nods.

“Then I'm going with you.”

Stiles' mouth falls open. Could they stop trying to give him a heart attack? This is the last thing he expected to hear, especially because the deputy is still in his uniform.

“Aren't you, like– on a shift?”

“No, it just ended.” Jordan puts hands on his hips and straightens his back into a very familiar, you’re-not-convincing-me-otherwise-so-don't-even-try posture. “And I know what you want to say, but I'm going. I kinda had enough of being at the sidelines when this– Other side of me seems to be right in the middle of it. So I'm going. I bet you can use a backup anyway.”

And this time it's Stiles that needs to take a moment to let it sink in, to consider Jordan's words and how he must have felt these past weeks, tormented by dreams filled with dead bodies. Swallowing through a tight throat, Stiles can only nod back because he _gets it_ , he was there, in almost the exact same place. And he was throwing himself into the middle of the action without considering how it would affect others, so what right does he have to deny the same to Jordan? Lydia was already there at his side, trying to uncover the mystery of Jordan’s supernatural side and help him take back the reins of his life. And damn it all, Stiles might’ve been too caught up with his own issues, but he will do better now – he will be there to help. God knows they all could use someone to lean on.

So Stiles heaves out a sharp sigh and nods, but gives the deputy a pointed look – let it be said he warned Jordan first.

“Alright, okay, though to be fair, you might regret it.”

“Why?” Jordan’s brows crease, a wary expression on his face. “It's not Peter, is it?”

What?! What is it with them all and asking about Peter?

“No, _no_ , absolutely not, why would you even– you know what, nevermind.”

“Then why would I regret it? Is that someone really so dangerous to us?”

That gives Stiles a pause. How does he even answer such a question? Anyone else from the pack would know their answer immediately, but Stiles– He could never be objective again. But maybe that’s the thing – Jordan has no idea about any of it, he wasn’t in the know back then and no one liked going back to those events to fill him in.

Stiles' mouth feels all too dry as he decides to bite the bullet and do just that himself.

“What do you remember from a year ago? When– when the bomb happened?”

“I thought it wasn't Supernatural? There was a real bomb there.”

“Well, yeah, there was, but– it’s more complicated than that. I'll give you the basics now because there's just too much to say.” Taking a long, steadying breath, Stiles crosses his arms tightly over his chest to steel himself and just lets it pour out on its own. “Basically, a super powerful, very old Japanese fox demon that was trapped under the Nemeton possessed me after a sacrifice. He was trying to get his revenge but the pack got in his way and trapped him again, but we've had this connection ever since. And now I'm going to free him.”

Jordan listens carefully to the short, jumbled explanation, his raised eyebrows the only thing betraying any hint of surprise. Stiles almost envies him how stoic he can be in the face of such information, but now he's only grateful, especially with that jittery, hollow nervousness bouncing off his ribs – Jordan seems to be taking it really well, all things considered.

“A fox demon, huh? That sounds ominous.” The crease on his forehead deepens and Parrish crosses his arms – in a much more confident posture than Stiles’ hunched self-hug – seemingly thinking it through. “But– isn’t Kira like, connected with foxes too? Or do I have it wrong?”

“No, I mean yeah. I _mean_ yes, she is. Kira’s a Kitsune, she’s got a fox spirit, because her mom is one too. And her mom–” Stiles’ voice wavers and he glances back to where Lydia still hasn’t come out, hoping a little to have some help with the rest of the story. But no such luck, it seems, so Stiles swallows down the heavy lump in his throat and decides he might as well share this part too – with how important in the grand scheme of things it really is. “Mrs. Yukimura is actually the one he wanted revenge on. She asked for a favor and crossed him after he delivered, y’know, trapped him under the Nemeton way back in 1943, I think.”

“Damn…” Jordan leans back on his feet, brows raised high. “And he was trapped for like what, seventy years there?”

“Something like that.”

“So he’s a Kitsune, too?”

Stiles shakes his head lightly, then stops and tilts it to the side with his whole body swaying, because _actually_ –

“No – and yes? He’s a Nogitsune, that’s what everyone calls him, and… a Dark Kitsune too, but it’s a bit complicated.” And there’s no time to try and explain what Stiles isn’t sure he even truly understands himself. “Basically, he’s a chaos spirit, a trickster – and a _true_ trickster, so be careful, he doesn’t exactly… play by our rules.”

Which is probably a huge understatement – there's barely anything human about Void, even the looks he adapted for himself from Stiles didn't cover the deeply magical nature of the demon. Of course, if he wanted to, Void could imitate anyone so well that no one would be able to see through the disguise, and he has proven that already, but when the demon chose not to hide, Void's eyes always held too much power and focus for him to be mistaken for a mere human. And anyone looking into them would instantly realize that the demon didn't play by any rules besides the ones he created himself.

When Stiles turns to Jordan, it looks like he wants to ask something else, but at the same moment the door behind them opens and Lydia walks out, sharing one last hug with her mom. They both turn to her and the relief that overcomes Stiles is hard to measure, slipping down his body and seeping the tension out of rigid muscles. It releases some of the tight grip on his chest too.

Lydia's already dressed in fresh clothes and although her hair seems completely wild and untamed, and her face still looks far too pale, the new energy in her step and the small, curved in one corner smile is enough to put them more at ease.

“Hey guys,” she greets them, stopping at Stiles' side and looking up to him with questioning eyes, “you ready?”

“As ready as I can be,” Stiles answers honestly, rolling his shoulders as the heart stutters against his lungs. “Jordan is coming with us.”

“Really?” Lydia raises her eyebrows, looking quickly between them, but the smile returns almost immediately. “That's actually perfect.” And then she turns to the deputy, a spark in her green eyes. “Congratulations, Jordan, you're a hellhound.”

Jordan blinks at her, momentarily thrown off, but Stiles can't help it and laughs out loud at the reference. The last his residual tension disperses immediately and _god_ , how he missed that. Lydia always did know what to say to make him feel better.

“A hellhound?” Jordan repeats, wonder and confusion in his voice. “What does that mean?”

All of the humor disappears from Lydia’s face, a grimace appearing in its place.

“Unfortunately, I didn't get much time to read more into it.” She doesn't need to specify why, they all already know, and not only by her expression. “But I did read that a hellhound is supposed to be a guardian.”

Stiles blinks, his mind soaking up the words like a sponge.

“That makes sense, that’s why you took the chimeras’ bodies and hid them. You were protecting the supernatural world.” Stiles muses, rocking on his heels and his mind already running through all the implications. That's when it catches, a simple little detail clicking into place. “You said you dreamed about it right?”

Jordan frowns, but Lydia looks at Stiles instead and when their gazes meet, Stiles sees that she is already starting to follow his train of thought, a spark of understanding in her eyes.

“I guess. I don't remember the details, those dreams were more like...” Jordan shakes his head, seemingly lost for words, but Stiles is already ahead.

“Visions. Like premonitions? Like warning you about a possible future right?”

“Maybe? I would hope not but...”

Jordan seems to be spiraling into even more confusion, but Stiles’ mind speeds right through and without any anchor to cling to, he fires off questions right at the deputy.

“Do you know where you were when it happened? Like did you sleepwalk through those dreams? Or– _or_ maybe you have blank spaces in your memory? Maybe flashes of places that you are sure you were not in? Maybe–”

Lydia nudges him gently in the side and Stiles looks up, immediately shutting his mouth at the stricken expression on Jordan’s face. Probably caused by the barrage of questions just thrown into his face, so Stiles forces himself to take a long breath and step back. He did have a tendency to get a little over-excited and too animated when he got into one of those moments. And it could be a lot for someone that wasn't used to it. But to his credit, Jordan recovers pretty quickly, getting that focused, thoughtful look as he probably tries to remember. And just by the way his face changes, Stiles can immediately point out the moment Jordan realizes.

“Okay, I do have… some of those. Definitely some blanks, maybe– maybe some flashes? They’re too blurry… But where does that leave us?”

Stiles exhales slowly, cracking his knuckles. The magic buzzes up through his blood, amped out by his own brain switching gears.

“I think the hellhound is actually using you as a host.” The low hiss of breath is the only reaction Lydia gives and Jordan’s eyes go wide at his words, but Stiles doesn't let them interrupt, letting himself roll with the momentum of his fast-paced mind. “Okay, let me explain. I saw you at the station, you broke out of the cell like it was nothing and no one could get through to you. Also, it looked like the hellhound didn't really care _unless_ someone tried to stop him, stop it... _Anyway_ , that's probably not something that used to happen to you through your whole life right?”

“No, definitely not, I think it started… _actually_ , I think it started here. In Beacon Hills. I certainly wasn't fireproof before I came here, before...”

Jordan stops himself, a look of sudden realization on his face, and it makes Stiles almost giddy. Lydia seems just as excited, the shoulder brushing with Stiles’ trembling slightly as she’s already jumping in to ask:

“Before? Before what?”

“Well,” Jordan takes a long breath, giving them a look that seems as exasperated as it is grim. “I told you I was a part of a bomb squad in the military right?” They both nod, already anticipating the rest of the story. Stiles' own magic rushes ever more electric through his blood. “Just before I got out, I had barely survived an explosion. It _should have_ killed me. I guess– I guess, maybe that's when I started being fireproof.”

Stiles' and Lydia's gazes meet, a silent agreement passing in-between, and Stiles takes a quick moment to appreciate how well they know each other. It just about steals his breath. Then he turns back to Jordan.

“Did it try to communicate with you?”

“No. Maybe with the dreams, but other than that, no, I don't think so.”

That's... Not ideal. Something tells Stiles this is important, something about Jordan and his own buzzing magic, but it's enough out of reach, so he has no idea what it could be. And yet, just putting together two simple facts – the hellhound being a guardian and the Beast being a huge threat, for humans and Supernatural alike – makes his mind frantic with possibilities. But maybe there would be a way...

Stiles' throat lodges up, the empty echo in his chest slashing through his spine, ringing so cold and hollow it's almost crippling.

“Stiles?” Lydia’s concerned voice rips him out of his mind, her green eyes bright and attentive. She’s holding onto his elbow as if he just staggered without realizing.

So Stiles forcefully wrenches his mind back to the topic and away from the ache in his chest.

“I think... We might be able to help you communicate with it,” he tells Jordan slowly, rasping against the tightness of his throat. Stiles needs to clear it before speaking again. “If you want to. It's not guaranteed it will make it better.”

Jordan’s brows crease deeply, eyes full of concern, but _thankfully_ , he doesn’t touch on that, just asks:

“And you would be able to do that?”

“Maybe not alone but with–”

And Stiles’ voice dies on his numb lips, lungs freezing over with the fear that– that–

Lydia’s hand shifts to his shoulder, squeezing tightly, but not ungently, and Stiles looks down to see her eyes already on him, full of so much emotion and pure, full-hearted _understanding–_ It's hard to blink back the tears burning in his eyes.

But somehow it gives Stiles strength to gather himself on a quivering breath, look away with no delusions that it hides how much he hurts inside.

“If– if he decides to stay, then I'm sure he would know something. But that's a _big if_ , so don't get your hopes up.”

He tries to dismiss it with a laugh, a very unconvincing one – broken and falling apart, breathless as if it got stuck inside of his rib cage, frozen still with uncertainty. But he's saved from any more questions and pitying looks when Natalie and Melissa arrive. The nurse has that pinched look on her face, trying to hide both her exasperation and the smile building in the corner of her mouth.

Between the three of them, Lydia is quickly cleared out of the hospital and soon enough they all come out to the parking lot. Stiles stops dead in his tracks at the sight of Roscoe there. By all means, his jeep shouldn't be here, he's pretty sure he drove Theo’s car into the hospital.

“How–”

“Oh, this–” Jordan almost looks sheepish, but there's a gentle smile on his face as he passes the key back to Stiles. “Here. I saw it at the station and since I knew you'd be here, I just drove it with Strauss and came back by my own car. Thought you might need it.” And he shrugs, like it's nothing, like it's not one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for Stiles.

“You–” _This man_ – Stiles shakes his head in disbelief, then reaches out to grip Jordan's shoulder. And just like he decided long ago that he's keeping the deputy, he decides now that– “Jordan, from now on, you're my second best friend. _Wait_ , no, now you're an honorary Stilinski. No take backs!”

And giving the deputy one last clap on the shoulder, Stiles walks away before the man can protest or even say anything. When he reaches Roscoe, Lydia is already on the other side, getting in with him.

“Jordan will follow us,” she tells him and Stiles starts up the engine, driving out of the parking lot before his brain had the time to catch up to speed with anything that happened the past few minutes.

But the second they hit the road, every doubt and fear crashes back into Stiles, a vicious strike to his sternum that leaves him completely breathless and shaking. His grip on the steering wheel gets so hard his knuckles turn white and the leather creaks under his fingers.

“Stiles, it will be okay,” Lydia puts her hand on his arm again, squeezing reassuringly.

Stiles doesn't dare to look at her, to even move a muscle in case it sets off something that will splinter his very being apart.

“You don't know that, he might...” His breath catches, the sounds of it so similar to a sob that Stiles would burn with embarrassment if he wasn't already feeling so broken it all threatened to turn him into a mess of panic attack. “What if– what if he leaves, what if–”

The words leave him on a whisper so quiet it's barely audible above the rumbling of Roscoe's engine. But Lydia hears him loud and clear.

“ _Stiles_ ,” she almost sounds exasperated, “how many times does someone need to tell you that they want you before it gets through your thick skull?”

Shocked and thrown off balance, Stiles stutters, barely escaping driving Roscoe off the road. His fingers are starting to ache with how tightly Stiles is gripping the wheel.

“He might have been lying about that...”

It barely passes through his throat, cutting on the way up, coppery and sour on his tongue, but he forces it out anyway.

Lydia seems very much unimpressed by his protest, yet her tone stays gentle.

“I don't think he would play such a long game if the only thing he wanted was to get free. We know he could do it easily in other ways.” She's making too much sense, but it still doesn’t do a whole lot to calm down the freezing storm in his chest. And Lydia seems to know that too because her hand tightens around his arm and her voice gains that soft, warm quality that blurs his sight just that bit more. “I will be there, Stiles, I won’t leave you alone. But I'm pretty sure you won't walk out by yourself.”

Stiles swallows heavily, a tremor settling in his body like a second heartbeat.

“Thank you,” is the only thing he says, unable to squeeze anything else through the vice-like grip around his neck, robbing him of breath.

And Stiles tries to stay calm long enough to not cause an accident, tells himself it doesn't matter, that no he can't do anything but set the demon free and see what happens. But it doesn't help. With every second they get closer to the Animal Clinic the anticipation in his buzzing magic grows, both spreading the frost on his lungs further and stocking a new fire in his gut. The emptiness in his chest swells, writhing and echoing, until he can almost pinpoint it – the quivering thread of their connection growing stronger.

As he parks in the back of the animal clinic and steps out onto the cracked pavement, shutting the door behind him with a resounding thump, Stiles can almost feel it. The darkness awaiting inside, eager and ripe with anticipation. His own magic – his very heart and soul – readily sings in response. And somehow, with unwavering confidence, Stiles knows that _this is it_ – this is where he was supposed to be, where he was always going to end up. That knowledge is enough to push him forward.

His heart thuds heavily against his ribs, memories of words past ringing in his head both sharp and distant–

.

_„What. Am. I. Void.”_

_„A beauty, Stiles, so, so beautiful and perfect...”_

.

_„What do you want?”_

_„–You, Stiles, I want_ you _.”_

.

_„You’ll walk me through them?”_

_„Of course, Stiles, I wouldn’t miss it,”_

.

_„–I’m no_ oathbreaker _–”_

.

_„I’m glad you’re alive, little fox.” – „Don’t do that again.”_

.

_„Are you done pretending?”_

.

_Don’t be afraid, little one, it’s nothing to be afraid of._

.

_Jealous?_

_Would you like me to be?_

.

_–you know I’d give you everything, little fox–_

.

_It did feel good, didn't it?_ – _Feels good now too_ – _Accept it, Stiles, embrace it, I know you want to–_

.

_Oh, my sweet little fox…_ _But you are not alone–_

.

_Hush, my darling, I'm here._

And Stiles can _feel it_ – the connection slowly swelling in his chest, spreading itself outwards and inwards, digging deep, deep, deep into his very core. His shadow-rune pulses hotly, in sync with his heartbeat, with the push and pull of their bond, and Void is _right there_ , right beyond a measly padlock, few thin doors, a trickle of laughably weak wards. The magic in his veins surges so violent and eager it might as well be directing Stiles’ steps just as much as the throbbing abyss in-between his lungs.

But Stiles freezes up right at the entrance. Not because he’s afraid – the fear is there, but it’s swarmed with the painful longing that floods his lungs without stopping – but because somewhere in the distance a sound of a dirtbike cuts through the evening’s silence. A dirtbike Stiles recognizes.

“Scott’s coming,” his voice leaves strained, huffed out on a quivering exhale, and he gives both Lydia and Parrish a short look. “He’ll try to stop me.”

They exchange quick glances, seemingly coming to one mind, and turn back to him.

“Then we will stop him first,” Lydia proclaims, sure and straight-backed, arms crossed over her chest. Jordan nods at her side.

Some of the tension releases from Stiles’ shoulders, relief and gratefulness seeping in its place that Stiles doesn’t quite know how to express right then. So he only says the most sincere–

“Thank you.”

–he can muster and turns to the back entrance again, to the padlock he dismantles with one simple gesture.

Pinpricks of energy run over Stiles’ whole body, little sparks of sharp awareness – of what, exactly, resides just a few paces away – and he finally steps inside. His body turns without his conscious input, to the small corridor, to where he knows the vault is hidden, wards protecting it paper-thin, fragile, and not in any way comparable to the surge of crackling power in his veins, continuously nipping at his muscles and demanding to be let out.

Yet despite the sensations raging through his body, Stiles’ head stays silent, eerily so – and still their connection continues to swell and grow and _pull_ , but the reason’s abundantly clear.

Someone behind him calls his name, but Stiles barely registers it. Surprisingly, his mind goes back to the little monologue he gave Malia, all that time ago, in Lydia’s basement, never addressed after. _Control’s overrated._ And yet–

So much of his life he spent trying to control – his paranoia, his fears, his _anger_ , everything threatening to tear his friends, his very life apart, and now his magic, wild, untamed, _hungry_. And he’s tired, _he’s so fucking tired_. Of the pack falling apart, of his friend, _best friend_ , almost brother, choosing someone else’s words over his, of always being just the human, always on the sidelines, always the one clawing his veins out, trying to come up with a solution, trying to save everyone, always the one to figure it out – to then be cast aside, back to the lonely little corner he’s never really become used to, but silently accepted because what else could he do?

Stiles knows everyone has their reasons, he _gets them_ , he really does, but... he’s exhausted of always understanding yet never being understood, always throwing himself in with everything he has, but barely ever getting the same back. He wants... _wants_ _something_ for himself, only himself, just this once. To give up the need to control, to let someone care for him, about him, have the undeniable, overwhelming feeling of just _belonging_ , of always having someone behind his back, of not caring about everything else so much so it burns. He wants it so much it’s _painful._

Maybe that’s why he never really rejected Void. Why his whole being sang with longing even in those very first dreams, at the mere glimpse of the impossible possibility of someone that wanted _him_ , just him, just _Stiles_ – in all the ways he is and isn’t, no conditions, no rules, nothing less and nothing more but just him. How could he refuse such an offer? When it was everything he could want, everything he _wants_. And as terrifying as it is, as _scared_ of losing it now as Stiles is, he can’t let it stop him from reaching for the impossible that seems far closer than ever before.

Tears prick at the back of his eyelids and Stiles hates it, hates how he’s thrumming with the longing, _yearning_ , for something he shouldn’t and yet can’t help but desire with his whole being. But maybe that’s how it was always meant to be, maybe Stiles wouldn’t ever settle for normal, for secure, for anything less but the most intense, the most fascinating, the most _dangerous_. The kind of intense that spoke to his very soul. Would it really be so bad though? Familiar words, raspy and achingly gentle, ring inside his head – _you need only ask, Stiles_. And then others, coming from his own mouth, months, practically years back – _never trust a fox._

The connection stays silent, even when the abyss in his chest squirms and writhes, pulsing and trying to reach out. _Craving_.

A body moves behind him.

Stiles throws a shield around himself with barely a thought, stronger than anything any druid could ever do, and whoever it bounces right back. The little pinpricks of someone touching it get lost in his thoughts, in the way the chasm of darkness between his ribs tugs, pulls, _yearns._ He can’t help himself, thinking back to everything the demon ever told him, since that first dream-meeting, to the way it felt, the presence, cool and yet warming him up, against his back, around him, soothing, _good_. The connection is silent, but it may as well be screaming.

_Did you mean it?_

His whole body shudders as it flares up in response, deep within his chest, the rune on his skin heated to the point of pain, delicious in its viciousness.

_Of course I did, little fox, I do. Every word._

It slips down his spine, liquid hot and sharp as a blade, a long shiver that makes Stiles force back a gasp.

_Everything, Stiles._

The murmur is clear, echoing inside his skull and yet concentrated just behind his ear, a brush of breath on his neck. The voices behind him raise up, alarmed and conflicted, but as Stiles stops at the threshold of the small corridor and turns to look over his shoulder, he only searches for one.

Somewhere in his peripheral Parrish seems to be holding Scott back, but Lydia stands steady at the back of the examination room, leaned on the steel table, and watches him with an attentive, knowing look. When their gazes meet, Stiles couldn’t begin to guess what his eyes convey, but it makes her straighten, spine straightening with confidence, and she nods, just once, short, barely a move of her head, but it’s enough. He’s turning back around and moving down the corridor without much input from his brain, the magic absolutely _singing_ with delight just under his skin. When he stops in front of the hidden vault, the wards seem even more laughable.

„Stiles!”

Scott’s alarmed voice halts him, just barely, as the alpha stands a few feet away, where the shield allows, looking at Stiles with a mix of fear and something like... Like he’s trying to come up with a way to stop him, to prevent whatever’s going to happen, even though he can’t _really_ know what Stiles is planning.

But it’s _going to happen_.

„Don’t.”

Is the only thing Stiles says, his head moving so very slowly to the side, tilting slightly when the word falls. It feels both alien and so _fucking right_ to deny Scott, to see the crushing realization in his former friend’s face, to _know_ that he has pushed Stiles to here and now just as much as everything else had. And Stiles’ magic _sings_ , surging and crackling almost like a physical being over his skin, rushing with his blood. His sight changes too, Stiles notes. Wisps of energy stain his peripherals, permeating the air, all the feelings exuding like clouds of smoke. A steady presence resides at the back, where Lydia waits – a bit nervous but the only one with total belief in him – and the vault’s entrance glows in front of him. It steals his attention wholly, so he doesn’t notice how Scott flinches back.

The wards are faint green, surrounding the entrance, but behind it – behind lays a darkness, a conglomeration of shadows, an abyss instantly pulsing in sync with Stiles’ heart, with the one encompassing his rib-cage. As Stiles tears down the wards and opens the vault with a flick of his wrist, the room revealed to him is already bathed in the presence – anything and everything else paling to the point of nonexistence, not important in the face of what he came for. And it’s there. Waiting. Almost innocently.

Stiles steps into the vault, a cold shiver running over his limbs, but on the inside he’s _burning._ His head stays completely quiet, but the rune flares up, searing white-hot through his whole body – he can almost taste the anticipation on the tip of his tongue, sweet and spicy, _absolutely delicious_.

„Stiles! What are you doing?!”

Scott bangs on his shield, but it’s non-consequential. There’s a good few feet of distance between them, Scott’s not stopping him.

„Stiles, think about it–”

He tunes it out and steps closer, letting the shadows reach out for him, welcoming the darkness that writhes in the corners.

_“Finally here again, little fox.”_

When the words come, they’re all just a purring, downright sinful sound, both in Stiles’ head, a caress along his skin, and aloud, in the space of the small room. Stiles can almost see the smirk on his shadow’s face, the sparks in the midnight dark eyes, and clear delight pulses along his nerves, along the pull in his chest.

_“Oh, I’ve missed you_.”

And even though they were never really, truly apart, the implication just as the growling voice makes Stiles shudder all the same. It’s starting to feel real, _tangible_. So _close_ it seems to be licking fire at his very nerves.

„DON’T, Stiles! It’s a trick, he’s going to trick you!” Scott’s voice cuts through the air, cuts to the inside of his bubble, but it only makes Stiles step closer.

The triskelion urn sits there, almost innocently on the shelf, a ring of runes and mountain ash around it that disappears with just one of his thoughts, shimmering into nothing. The shadows around writhe, reaching out, and everything around plunges into darkness as only the wooden prison remains. Nervously licking over his chapped lips, Stiles lets the magic crackle over his skin and stops before the shelf.

„I will let you out as I said, but–” his voice barely rises above a whisper, but he can feel every ounce of the attention trained on him, „–I need one promise before I do. An oath–”

_–please..._

The quiet hum in response is amused, thoughtful, but not at all surprised. Stiles can almost see the ghost of Void before him, lounging on the Nemeton’s stump, relaxed and nonchalant, a grin on pale lips.

_Of course you do,_ he coos, positively delighted, _anything you want, Stiles. Just ask._

The words pressing on his teeth aren’t the ones he needs to say and it almost _hurts_ to push them away, but Stiles does – then steels his spine to reach for the box, releasing a long exhale. The wood is smooth under his fingers, an abyss residing inside and the darkness around pulsing with anticipation.

„You will leave everyone I care about alone,” he manages finally, hands tightening around the urn. There’s so much more he wants to say, wants to ask for, but won’t, not now, not _yet_. „You won’t harm them.”

Silence stretches after – tense and tinged with curious anticipation, like Void waits for those things Stiles can’t voice right now. Everything is so quiet the whole world seems irrelevant.

_“You have my word, little fox. No harm will come from me to those you care about.”_

_Unless_ you want it, _until_ you care about them – stays unsaid, but evidently clear in the ring of connection behind the rune, the ink a steady, throbbing burn. So Stiles reaches for the lid, fingers curling around it – and hesitates.

_When I let you out,_ he thinks, not daring to voice it, _will you stay?_

And even inside his own head the question quivers. Stiles has to blink away the blurriness that just spiked under his eyelids, stinging as the shuddering breath rattles in his chest. It almost feels like too much, to express the fear eating away at his core, to show how vulnerable it makes him in that moment, to let the longing peek through. But then the presence shifts, shadows reaching out and curling around him, surrounding him in an embrace so familiar it _hurts_.

It’s also not nearly enough for the pit of unending yearning ravaging Stiles’ very being.

_Of course I will, Stiles, where I would go?_ A touch fleets over his cheekbone, through the wild strands of his hair. _I belong with you._

Stiles clenches his jaw, trapping the wounded sound inside his lungs, and twists the lid one way–

_I’m bound to you, my little fox._

–twists it the opposite way.

_I chose you, we belong together–_

The lid loosens, gives, and Stiles opens the urn.

_–for eternity._

Stiles shudders, a shiver cutting down his body, as sharp as a blade, both freezing cold and burning hot, a rush in his blood and in the magic buzzing with eagerness, pulling through his body and _out._ The shadows condensed in an embrace around him start seeping away, joining the darkness that gathers before Stiles, condensing and writhing, and his own power surges up, twining along with the dark power along the pulse of his frantic heart – crafting, building, making it _real_.

His rune burns, and burns, and _burns_ , until it sears through his chest, into his heart, and Stiles gasps for air – he’s basically panting, holding onto the urn as the shadows finally still and slink away, revealing its creation.

Void stands where the darkness pulses and throbs around the demon, an image pulled out right from the dream-clearing. There’s not even a foot of space between them and Void’s exactly how Stiles remembers him, sees him inside his head – taller, shoulders and chest a bit wider, his face sharp-drawn and few shades paler, eyes like twin obsidian crystals, a mass of inky black hair, and that smirk just barely curled on plush lips. For just a second Stiles wonders if it was his magic or the fox’s that made up this new-old body, but it vanishes the second Void steps closer.

„Oh, _Stiles,_ ” it’s like a caress, low and smooth, hot breath on his own mouth.

Fingers, cool and longer than his own, reach up to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the slope of his cheek as Void looks him over with hooded eyes. And Stiles stands frozen, without the ability to move even if he wanted to. But he _doesn’t_ want to – the touch is _real,_ not just a phantom. It’s tangible, cool and soft skin against his own heated face. Then another hand slips, feather-light, from Stiles’ neck down to press against his chest, against the rune above his heart, and he shudders. The smirk stretches on Void’s lips and he leans closer, brushing their noses together.

„I’ve _really_ missed you.”

Void drags out the words, a deliciously purring whisper, sounding both in his head and slipping hot over Stiles’ parted lips – it’s so close, _so close_ , he can feel it tingling against his sensitive skin. And with his nerves singed on ends, with muscles rigid and coiling up, Stiles is about ready to just _take it_ – then Void leans all the way in and _goes right through him._

His body disperses, sinking into Stiles with shadows and frost surging through his blood, like being dunked into the bath again. It’s only a flash, but it makes him gasp and flail in confusion, trying to reorient himself. _What–, how–_

_Easy, Stiles, I’m still here._

The voice is amused, but gentle and soothing as Stiles regains his footing. His rune exudes a steady heat as his chest pulses, impossibly filled, and the weight at the back of his head, the familiar presence, is a steady comfort despite being the very thing that caused that fucking painful _disappointment_ that slashed right through his very core. But the sensation is suffocating and that’s not what Stiles should be focusing on, not when there are so much more important things to take care of. And even with the yearning tearing at Stiles’ insides, it’s still the first time since– probably forever – that when Stiles takes a deep breath and settles, he feels _complete._

_Didn’t like your body?_

He quips to cover up the coiling storm in his gut and closes the urn, wiping at his face just in case. Void chuckles anyway, but the warmth that spreads from him is vicious and soft at the same time, smoothing over the hurt.

_I very much like it, it’s a beautiful body,_ Void purrs, a distinct sensation of fingers, of a feather-light touch running up his sides. _But I also like being inside you, kitten._

Stiles shudders, trying to ignore the downright filthy quality to the words, to the rasp running down his skin like liquid chocolate, warm, wet–

_Stop it,_ he thinks vehemently instead of letting himself give into it – there are things to do.

Void hums, a thoughtful lilt to it that only scrapes at Stiles’ nerves even more.

_Maybe later then._

His fingers clench around the urn, his whole body all at once too hot and thrumming with both delighted magic and something far dirtier– But Stiles steels himself, expels a deep breath, then turns around, to the faces looking back at him. Parrish seems half-confused and half-impressed, Scott, though, Scott has that kicked puppy look, as if he is _betrayed_.

The audacity. It makes blood boil in Stiles’ veins, the power surging up and seeking vengeance. His sight gets sharper again too, wisps of magic and feelings visible in the air, pricking at his skin, but he ignores that along with the scared look in the brown eyes boring into him.

„It’s my choice,” is the only thing Stiles says, gaze steady on the puppy-dog eyes Scott’s making.

_They don’t deserve you, little fox,_ Void murmurs as Stiles walks out, the shield still in place. _You’ve been betrayed by them._

He stops only once at the entrance door where Lydia stands, waiting for him, arms crossed on her chest and visibly nervous as she chews on her lips. Her eyes snap to him the second Stiles emerges, looking him over, apprehension mixed with curiosity in her sharp, green gaze.

„Everything alright?” she asks, clearly on alert, and Stiles can’t help the little smile curling on his mouth. It seems to settle her a little as he nods and comes closer. „Is he... _well_ , with you?”

Stiles stops beside Lydia and meets her gaze, feeling almost too steady, too _calm_ – satisfied in a strange way that spreads warm and thrilling through his chest. And it’s the best he felt since a long, long time.

„Yeah,” he says instead, out on a breath, the relief so impossibly rattling it makes his voice waver. „Got him his body back, but he’s still in here.” And Stiles barely notices tapping his finger right over the rune. Void seems amused too, but Stiles stops there, considering, then takes Lydia’s hand in his, squeezes. „He won’t hurt you. Any of you. I made him promise.”

Lydia’s eyes hold an emotion he can’t decipher as their gazes lock.

„I’m not worried about that. If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t touch me.” And she seems to look straight _through_ him. Like she sees Void behind his eyes – and maybe she does.

There’s a distinct amusement along their connection, pulsing inside his chest, but under it hides a light, barely detectable smudge of... reverence? Stiles can’t help the smile.

„Well, Lyds, I think he likes you.”

_Wouldn’t say that,_ he scoffs, but Stiles’ smile only stretches further.

Then there’s a commotion coming from the other room and Stiles stiffens, the connection thrumming with discontent almost on the verge of disgust. Stiles looks to the sound, then back to Lydia and when she nods, a small curve to her lips, he leans to peck her on the cheek and all but flees to Roscoe. As he settles in the driver seat a cold chill runs through his body, pulling to the side and a split second later Void’s sitting in the passenger side – or rather he’s lounging like the whole thing belongs to him, smirk in place.

Stiles’ gaze inevitably catches on the demon, slipping over his body quickly before he’s able to wrench himself away. Ignoring the whole thing, Stiles shifts gears and pulls out of the parking lot.

„We have things to do,” he says instead, the plural coming as natural as breath.

„Yes, that we do, darling,” Void agrees easily, watching him with undivided, delighted attention that crawls over Stiles skin like little sparks of electricity. „So, are we looking for the little chimera or are we going to the hospital?”

„What do you mean the hospital?” Stiles was already making up an alternate plan to track down Theo, but–

„I have my full abilities now,” Void’s voice turns serious, all at once, black eyes glinting darkly. „I could try and see what’s wrong with your dad.”

That almost makes him screech to a halt, but years of experience behind the wheel taught Stiles to repress that particular instinct. Instead, his fingers tighten on the wheel as he chances a glance over at Void.

„You would try?” The words come out hoarse and he needs to swallow down the lump growing in his throat.

Void straightens in his seat, then leans closer and his hand clasps around Stiles’ wrist, cool and steady, a simple gesture that’s more comforting than it has any right to be.

„Of course I would, Stiles.” And it’s soft, so soft, as the fingers squeeze around his wrist, thumb tracing soothing circles on the sensitive underside. „Anything for you, little fox, you know that already.”

Stiles swallows thickly, throat dry and parched all at once. He ignores those last words with everything he has, ignores them vehemently even when they bury themselves deep into his heart, his chest, his very bone marrow, with how sincere they sound. Instead, Stiles just nods, changing the route, and speeds up to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

He tries not to miss the touch as Void takes his hand away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, I really, really hope I delivered, hah. Anyway, what do you think? Did you like the big part? Did you like the lead-up? Any predictions? Sorry for keeping you from it for so long and then stretching out this chapter, lmao, I needed some setting up for later chaps ;p 
> 
> Anyway, it's late and I don't have the mind for my usual sign off, so yeah - hope this one was a nice read and all the love to y'all ❤❤❤


	19. stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, y'all, 'cause this bad boy is a whole 12k of content, lmao. I couldn't bring myself to part it or cut anything out, but I guess that means I just like it too much as it is, hah. Hope it will be a nice read for y'all ^^ Enjoy!

The hospital thrums with pain and chaos, even more acutely now that his shadow is fully attached to him – the feeling, the taste of it a heavy, heady thing. There’s only a glimpse of the trickster’s hunger hovering at the edge of Stiles’ senses, but he’s more than aware the demon must be very possibly _starving_ at this point. That's why Stiles doesn’t even try to reject the stray wisps of pain that reach for him, instead readily welcoming them in, letting the pain soak through his skin and seep power into both of them. Something almost close to relief stirring in his chest at the sensation – unspoken, but clear appreciation slowly trickling along the connection. And as much as it thrills him, Stiles can’t let it distract him when he rushes through the hospital to get to his dad.

Even though it's only a few minutes and an excruciatingly slow ride in an elevator, the time it takes Stiles to finally reach the correct room still fries at the ends of his nerves with acidic worry. And the hope of not meeting anyone on his way and just slipping inside without any fuss dies the moment he spots Melissa waiting beside the door. Her eyes are already trained on Stiles as if she was waiting specifically for him, knowing that he’d be back as soon as possible. The look she gives him is as close to a glare as the nurse can get when still visibly concerned. It makes Stiles pause, an echoing hesitation bouncing inside his ribs, because – what is he supposed to do now? It doesn’t seem that she knows – _yet_ – but it’s clear she’s suspecting something. And Stiles _needs_ to get to his dad.

Void stirs somewhere under the rune, a cool caress from inside out trailing slowly over his ribs.

_Shall I–_

_No!_ Whatever the demon wanted to propose, Stiles cuts right through it, too unsure to let go of him– of _the situation_ for even a second. _I’ll talk to her_.

And swallowing down the thick lump in his throat, Stiles puts all of his nervous energy into his steps and comes up right to the nurse. When she notices his determination, Melissa’s face takes on an even more concerned expression.

“Stiles–”

“I need to see him,” he cuts right in, yet again, but _damn it all_ if anything is going to stop Stiles right now. “Sorry, Melissa, but I have help now, so I’m going inside whether you like it or not.”

Her open mouth clamp shut together, brows climbing up on her forehead in clear surprise, but Stiles is turning away and gripping the doorknob before Melissa can gather her composure.

“Wait!” And she follows him inside easily enough despite the higher-pitched tone of her voice. “At least tell me what you’re going to–”

But Stiles tunes her out the moment his gaze falls on the bed.

His dad looks even worse now, pale skin threaded with sickly green-black splotches and beads of sweat on his forehead. The sight tears at Stiles’ heart, blurring the edges of his vision, but he ignores the cracking and splintering ache in his chest to instead step closer, put some distance between himself and Melissa. If he could, Stiles would keep it a secret as long as possible, but at this point she’d know soon enough, so he can only hope she won’t do anything rash.

Void’s presence slips closer again, filling up all the empty spaces in the abyss of Stiles’ chest, and with a drawn-out breath out, he gives the go-ahead his shadow was only waiting for. The chill as he pulls away from Stiles is just an echo of the freezing sensation from before, but it still makes him shudder. At the same moment, shadows start gathering from every corner of the room, condensing into a solid body just in front of Stiles – and a blink later Void’s there, standing just beside him.

“Stiles?”

Melissa’s alarmed voice barely registers to Stiles as he exchanges glances with the demon, an understanding passing through that doesn’t need any words. Just the tip of Void’s head, a quirk in the corner of pale lips, and Stiles’ heart stutters on a beat.

“It’s alright,” he says to the nurse, sounding distant and trembling even to himself, as he watches Void step around the bed to the other side. “He’s with me.”

 _“What_? What do you mean–”

Without stopping his pace, Void looks up at Melissa, black eyes glinting with an almost silver gleam, amused, and she quiets instantly.

“ _Melissa_ , so nice to see you again,” the demon drawls, a slow grin spreading his lips, and he stops at the sheriff's other side. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for you, so–” The look on his face is very much chill-inducing, even to Stiles. “–better stay there and don’t interrupt, hm?”

He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing, just slightly.

“How dare you, why would I even–”

“Melissa, please.” Stiles turns to look at her, feeling just a little bit bad when she immediately slumps on herself – he must really make a terrible sight, desperate and teary-eyed as he is. “Just trust me on this, okay? Just this once–”

His voice hitches and Stiles presses his lips tightly together, but at the same time, he can’t look away, hoping beyond hope that it will work. It’s quite awful, using her concern and worry, but Stiles can’t see another way and it’s _about his dad_.

“Tic-toc,” Void murmurs, the words cruel and cutting through the tense silence, but his face seems almost reassuringly grim, “the sheriff’s losing precious time here, Melissa. What will it be?”

The nurse flinches, her posture rigid and her scent filled with terrified worry, but she takes a quick look at all three of them, and when it finally stops at Stiles, her mouth presses into a tight line–

“Okay,” –and she nods sharply, “but if I think I need to, I will scream.”

It’s as much reassurance as Stiles could have ever hoped for from her, so he doesn’t waste time and turns around to Void immediately. His heart pounds so harshly against his ribs it feels like it will break through the very bones.

“ _Please_ ,” is the only thing that leaves his trembling lips as Stiles meets the demon’s gaze again.

And yet, _and yet–_ Void’s expression seems to soften, the narrowed, dark look turning into something more relaxed, a little trickle of warmth right into Stiles’ chest.

 _I told you I would, didn’t I?_ And his voice is just as soft, a low rumble in the connection, the accompanying brush of touch slipping past Stiles’ cheek like the most bitter-sweet caress. _Just relax, little fox, all will be well._

Stiles shudders on a wavering exhale and tries not to fall apart as the words tuck themselves into the writhing darkness in-between his ribs. The feeling doesn’t pass even when Void’s focus shifts, falling on the weak form of Stiles’ dad in the bed. And Stiles’ own stays completely on Void, on the fingers curling around his dad’s wrist, the black lines immediately crawling up and over pale skin. It’s unmistakable then – the flash of ravenous hunger that cuts right through Stiles’ gut, a second-hand sensation that vanishes as soon as it appeared, yet leaves him almost gasping.

Void shudders as it passes between them, clearly shutting down that part of their connection before it’s fully revealed just how starved he must be. Stiles’ own muscles lock up with almost painful tension, a gnawing deep inside his core that echoes with a need for something hard to name. And there’s no trace left of the previous smirk on Void’s lips, his whole expression far darker and more rigid than Stiles can recall from their time together. He’s clearly feeding on the pain, the thrill almost reaching Stiles even through Void’s grip on the bond, but in a way the demon seems to be shoving the sensation away. But Stiles doesn’t have the time to wonder about it, not when he feels Void’s focus shifting yet again.

He looks slowly over the sheriff and moves his fingers from where they were curled around Stiles’ dad’s wrist – Void runs his hand over the pale skin, up the arm and over heavily raising chest. His eyes seem both incredibly focused and all-seeing while seeming far away at the same time, black lines still climbing the demon’s hand as he tilts his head slightly to the side. Stiles can feel Melissa stop beside him, watch his shadow with rapt attention, but he barely pays attention, the heavy weight of hope and fear possibly crushing – until Void stills, hand over sheriff’s abdomen, and nods.

“Here,” he says, steady and calm, “there’s a piece of bone poisoning him.”

All the air rushes out of Stiles’ lungs. He staggers forward, catching himself and leaning on the bed, jelly-legged from the relief that sweeps everything else out of the way. His sight is all blurry as he meets his shadow’s dark eyes, the depth of them glinting with something hard to discern, and Stiles just hopes that this one look conveys everything he’s not able to say or express. But maybe it’s enough, or maybe it has already seeped along the connection, because Void’s lips quirk up – just a little, only for Stiles to see. And then Stiles is immediately hurling himself around.

“Open him up,” he all but orders, muscles already rigid and trembling, “Melissa, take it out.”

The nurse tenses up, eyes darting between them – Stiles, his shadows, the sheriff, and Stiles again, her scent ripe with conflicting feelings – and she hesitates. Stiles is pretty sure he needs to prepare for quite a fight, and yet–

“Do you trust him?”

–is the only thing Melissa asks, her expression pinched in a way that looks almost painful.

But Stiles answer is immediate, a simple:

“I do.” Out on a breath, before he can even think about it, before– “I do with this,” he amends quickly, yet it tastes sour and bitter-sweet on his tongue.

An itching, burning sensation of eyes boring into his neck almost makes him turn back around, but instead Stiles waits, holding Melissa’s gaze as long as it takes until she visibly cracks, shoulders slumping on a sigh.

“Okay, but I’m trusting _you_ with this,” she says, giving Stiles a very pointed look and her voice as hard as he ever heard it.

“Thank you, _thank you_ , Melissa, I swear–”

“I’m also not leaving until you do.”

Stiles falters, the invisible grip on his throat closing even tighter, but he gets it, he does. With how frantic and dark her energy is right now, Stiles is as surprised as he is relieved that she even agreed to this much. And so he nods readily, wiping away the few stray tears that have somehow escaped, before he turns around to give his dad one last look.

Ignoring the weight of Void’s gaze for now, Stiles swallows the feelings threatening to drown him and reaches for his dad’s arm. Pushing away the sweet thrill of taking pain, of a shared thread of pleasure along the connection, he holds for a few seconds, just to– just to make sure, to– And then releases his grip, a sharp breath hissing out of his mouth, before he dares to look up to the demon. The black eyes watching him are hard to face, dark and heavy as they give nothing away, but Stiles steels himself and tries–

_Would you…_

Still, somehow it doesn’t leave even through his thoughts. And Stiles doesn’t quite know what he wanted to ask too, he just wants, just–

Void’s pale lips quiver in the corners, curling up into a smile that’s barely visible and somehow both bitter and soft at the same time. Then the shadows flicker around the demon and his whole form starts dispersing into wisps of smoky darkness. When the familiar chill trickles along their bond, Stiles is almost ashamed to admit how relieved it makes him – to feel Void’s presence merging back with him, fitting perfectly in all the empty spaces. So with one last, quivering breath to gather himself, Stiles straightens and turns to walk out of the room.

Melissa is standing still in the same spot, looking at him with an expression that Stiles isn’t brave enough to face, and it seems like she wants to say something. But just as Stiles tenses up, readying himself for whatever would be thrown his way, her hands curl into fists and she shakes her head.

Outside, Stiles slumps into a chair some ways ahead in the corridor right after they part ways, and not even a few minutes later doctors and nurses rush to his father’s room. Melissa is among them, checking up on Stiles from afar with a mix of both suspicion and worry, but thankfully she doesn’t try to talk to him. So when his dad is wheeled off to surgery, yet again, and Stiles is left alone in his uncomfortable seat, it’s back to the waiting game. As if the whole day was a constant battle with time passing by in a daze of worry and fear – with only _one_ exception.

Stiles trembles as the cool presence crowds around his shoulders, plastering itself to his back, around his middle, twinning in an embrace so familiar it makes his eyes sting anew, and when the ghost very clearly nuzzles the skin under his ear, Stiles can’t help the little, broken gasp that leaves him. It’s an echo, a phantom, Void’s still clearly merged with him, but it helps all the same. Comforting warmth spreads all through his chest, centered over his heart, and Stiles finds he can breathe a little easier. Somehow, it all makes the tension slowly seep away, in its place a weight settling in, limbs heavy as lead and exhaustion fogging up his mind. And still, it feels… nice. To be held, even this way, half-tangible as the embrace is, to be cared for and soothed. He’d probably tear up, but it seems like there’s no more left inside Stiles for anything but a weak whimper.

 _Get some rest, little one,_ Void murmurs, so low it’s more rasp than voice, as if trying not to disturb the edges of sleep already taking over Stiles’ mind, _I’ll keep watch and wake you if anything happens. Sounds good?_

Stiles shudders, just a little – at the words, the voice, the tone seeping warmly down his spine. And even though succumbing to sleep now seems like it should scare him, he’s far too tired to even fathom why, so instead he lets the presence rearrange him to a somewhat more comfortable position on the chair, leaning his head against the wall as Stiles is still completely surrounded, somehow, by the cool phantom presence. There’s no fight in him left to protest. It did sound good.

So Stiles lets himself be dragged into sleep, lulled by ghostly fingers carding through his hair and the soft caress nuzzling into his neck.

It’s hours later that Stiles tries valiantly to fight off sleep again, an exasperated silence tingling in the phantom touch on his shoulders – he tries to wave it away, but Void’s unrelenting, even when refusing to get corporeal for now. The demon wants him to go home and get some rest, Stiles knows it perfectly well, but there’s too much anxiety thrumming in his blood to leave the sheriff alone. An hour or so earlier his dad woke up, for a brief second, and the relief that washed over him was incomparable to anything he has ever felt in his life. But his dad needed rest too, most out of everything else, so Stiles murmured a soft sleep spell under his breath, traced a calming, healing rune on the sheriff's wrist, then collapsed back into his armchair. In which he still sits, not knowing what to do with himself other than try to keep watch.

Void huffs in his mind, the sounds half-exasperation, half-annoyance.

 _You won’t be of much use to him if you’re exhausted,_ he chides roughly, touch firming the slightest on Stiles’ neck, pressing on the knots in his bunched up muscles. _Especially_ _when the time for real threats will come._

Little shivers crackle over Stiles’ spine every time the coiled tension releases under Void’s intent phantom caress and he _knows_ , okay, he’s perfectly aware of it, what more, it makes perfect sense, still–

The door creaks, catching their attention, and Melissa steps into the room with a worried, but warm expression, even despite the heavy look in her eyes. It’s shocking that she manages to be concerned for Stiles after what he’d done, who he forced her to come face to face with, and yet it seems that she truly is. But those are the years spent as a nurse, being able to put away the things that haunted her to focus on those that needed help. And Melissa always did that for Stiles. Or maybe the fact that Void was right about his dad, that his words basically saved the sheriff’s life, helped to ease some of her suspicion – at least enough to put the matter on hold for now. They were both clearly ignoring that particular thing at the moment. Maybe, _maybe_ that’s why Void refused to become corporeal again...

Melissa comes closer to the bed after only a split second of hesitation, something anyone else could’ve overlooked, and yet it still looks like the worry staining her energy and pinched in her face is obviously for Stiles. With a nudge of nostalgia, Stiles thinks it’s a wonder she didn’t try to kick him out of the hospital yet – for more than one reason.

“I should’ve known you’d still be here.” There’s a small smile on her mouth, though, as she performs the checks he’s seen other nurses doing through the hours he’s been here already, and then she turns to him. “Your dad is perfectly alright. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep, then come back later?”

“I know, I just–”

Stiles closes his eyes, palms rubbing over his aching eyes, before he looks back to the sheriff, still sleeping and perfectly calm. When he reaches out with his magic, it tells him the same – his dad is recovering and healing well. More rest is the only thing he needs now.

Melissa slowly steps closer to lean on the bed, keeping a distance that feels both cautious and reassuring at the same time, and her voice comes as the same hush.

“It’s hard to leave him out of your sight,” she supplies for Stiles, her expression dropping to something heavier, grimmer. Stiles can only nod in response. “He’s not going to wake up for hours, though. You can get some rest, Stiles. You saved him, you deserve it, and he’ll still be here when you come back.”

“Wasn’t me, exactly...”

The words leave without his conscious input, but somehow they’re not even close to bitter – more soft, in fact, low and a bit trembling as Stiles’ vision blurs at the edges. His shadow doesn’t miss a second in solidifying his phantom touch, pressing into him more fully and brushing against his warm face. Stiles leans back on instinct, fully taking comfort when it’s given so freely, not even noticing Melissa’s careful gaze watching him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The question startles him a little – when he blinks up at the nurse, Stiles catches her worried, wary gaze, and promptly sighs. She’s riddled with rigidness, a mix of feelings and emotions that grate at his nerves, but maybe he deserves that.

“I’m sorry, but… not really.”

Wringing his hands tightly together, Stiles tries not to think about how inconsiderate he’s being, not even able to face her and properly explain as he should. And at his side, Melissa shifts, for a second seeming like she considers just escaping the situation, but then something softens in her expression.

“That’s alright... Scott told me.”

She says it slowly, careful in a way that sets Stiles’ nerves on edge, and he waits for a lecture, for a string of arguments why he fucked up, why–

“I can’t pretend to know your reasons. And I’m, quite honestly, a little terrified, but–”

Blinking in surprise, Stiles looks up in time to see her shoulders slumping, as if in defeat, _and yet_ her eyes hold tenderness that spreads cool shock all over Stiles’ thoughts.

“–I hope you know you can still turn to me. I gather the things between you and Scott are... rocky, but you’re like a second son to me. If you ever need anything, anyone to talk to, Stiles, you know where to find me, okay? Don’t even hesitate.” And then she smiles – a gentle, motherly expression that’s somehow completely genuine despite the lingering fear around her – and Stiles feels a little like crying.

Swallowing the lump grown from nowhere in his throat, Stiles manages a weak nod as the world stings and blurs.

“My shift ends in an hour, I hope I won’t see you here when I go out,” she adds, eyes narrowing in that familiar look of exasperated reprimand, then Melissa leans away from the bed with a sigh. “Really, Stiles, you look exhausted. Go home, get some rest, and bring the old man his things tomorrow.”

It sounds reasonable enough, and it was actually something that Void has been pushing him into and Stiles _truly_ was planning to do – if only he could peel himself away from his dad’s side. And he needs to clear his throat harshly before answering now, but at least his voice is somehow steady.

“Yeah, yeah sure, I’m– gonna do that.”

Melissa gives him one last look, full of hesitation and concern, before nodding and turning around to leave with a quiet goodnight. As the door shuts, Stiles curls in on himself on the chair, head in his open palms, breathing heavily through the grip roping itself around his chest, tighter and tighter with every second. All at once it’s starting to get too much.

_Easy there, little one, everything’s alright._

Void’s low rasp seeps along his senses and his cool presence shifts, as it always does, knowing exactly where to press and push. It firms around Stiles even more, into something almost solid, carding up into his hair and running along his spine, petting sweetly as the low, soothing voice murmurs little nothings at his ear. But the touch, the tone, the warmth trickling through the connection – it helps, giving Stiles enough focus to regulate his breath and slow down his frantic heart. And as he calms down, Stiles wonders, yet again, why Void hasn’t just materialized when he can now. That thought gets cut in half, though, as the door creaks open once more.

Blinking back the soft haze that came over him in the moment, Stiles looks up to find Lydia and Jordan stepping in, both with different levels of worry on their faces. Lydia’s standing straight, very much ready to conquer the world as usual, but in far more comfortable clothes than normal and with the softness to her eyes reserved only for those special few Stiles is honored to be among. Parrish mirrors her, in a way, but he’s also more visibly worried and somewhat off-balance, looking over Stiles with a shine to his eyes that Stiles can’t decipher until the deputy’s gaze shifts to the shadows lingering in the room.

“He’s still with you?” It’s poised like a question, but Lydia’s tone makes it clear she’s assured of the answer.

And Stiles can’t help the little quirk to his lips, especially because Parrish seems to not know what to do with himself.

“ _Honestly, where else would I be?_ ”

The eye-roll is apparent even without the visual, Void’s raspy voice sounding both in Stiles’ head, a small thrill in his chest, and out loud in the room. Jordan eyes the shadows again, a small frown between his brows, and Stiles wonders how much more Lydia told him of what happened back then. They rarely talked about it, but he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t deny an answer if Jordan asked.

“I don’t know, maybe causing mayhem in some other part of Beacon Hills – or on the other side of the world, for that matter,” she says, shrugging with one shoulder, but there’s steel to her words. And it makes the swell of appreciation in Stiles’ chest to grow even bigger.

“And we can’t see you, so how do we know for sure?” Parrish adds, not looking at anything in particular, but determined to let his point be known.

It’s not a valid point, not even close, which is clear to everyone inside the room besides Jordan himself – and of course the deputy has no idea, he was never faced with Void before, with the impeccably realistic illusions the fox could create on a whim. And Void’s amusement at the question fills Stiles’ own chest, tingly and sweet, and yet the demon apparently chooses to entertain them.

A small chill runs down Stiles’ body, pulling to the side as the shadows slither to the chair from all around the room, gathering at Stiles’ side, and in a blink Void’s sitting on the armchair with him, lazily draped over it like it’s a fucking throne or something, one muscular thigh pressed to Stiles’ side. And it makes a small thrill slash hot through Stiles’ gut – the tangible, physical contact, the solid line of another body so close that it makes his skin prickle with awareness; a body so similar to him, yet so very different.

Stiles needs to fight the sudden urge to lean back into the demon, into the perfectly left out space under his arm, because _who knows_ how he’d react when just having Void so close now was sending hot sparks all over his fried nerves. And when he speaks up, that smooth drawl sounding just from behind Stiles’ own head, the gooseflesh that erupts all over Stiles’ skin almost shakes him.

“Are you satisfied now?” Void asks, not even trying to cover his evident humor, and his attention seemingly – _thankfully –_ on Lydia and Jordan, not Stiles and his betrayal of a body. “Though, I must say, deputy, you should know you can’t always trust your sight. Who knows what’s real?” he muses, a lilt to his voice that softens the tone while making it seem all the more dangerous. It’s a combination that makes Stiles’ inner struggle even harder.

Both Lydia and Parrish eye the demon with varying shades of wariness, but they ultimately stay where they are.

“Can’t say that I am.” Lydia narrows her eyes at the demon one more time before moving her gaze down to Stiles, her whole expression and voice turning far more gentle now. “Are you alright?”

Jordan mirrors her, yet again, but even when looking at Stiles he’s keeping a special awareness of the fox – Stiles can’t say he blames him, although he maybe wishes, just a little, to be _less_ aware. Especially when a second later fingers press into his back, sending a white-hot pulse right into his gut, and start trailing along his spine in a deliberate, slow caress.

Valiantly, Stiles forces himself to ignore it and focuses on Lydia. He hopes his initial shudder wasn’t too visible as he nods.

“Yeah, just tired.”

And as Jordan asks about his dad next, Stiles recites what everyone has been telling him, while unconsciously leaning back into the touch at his lower back – as if on instinct, as if the caress drew him in like moth to flame. When he finally notices, Stiles is barely able to stop himself from following all the way back into the demon, and weakly tries to convince his own mind that it’s _only_ because his shoulders are cramping from the way he’s curled down, not because the fingers are waking goosebumps along his skin even through the soft hoodie.

“Did you sleep at all?” Lydia asks next, eyeing him carefully. She’s definitely seeing what’s going on, but seems to be ignoring it with far better results than Stiles.

“Some.” He scrapes nails down the side of his neck, barely resisting a shudder as fingers press in _just right_ on his back and release a particular knot that makes even more warmth spread through his insides. _Not helping_. “While dad was in surgery and later, before he woke up for a second. He won’t now, though, they say he should be resting for at least a few hours more.”

He moves his hand to cover his mouth right then – to silence the yawn as much as any sound it could turn into. Void doesn’t stop his insistent, probing caress even when his fingers slip all the way down to the edge of Stiles hoodie, past the dip in Stiles’ lower back. Heat starts spreading through his body from where they are touching, but a voice cuts through his thoughts before Stiles' mind can spiral.

“That’s why we’re here,” Jordan announces, looking around the room before he promptly sits down in one of the spare chairs at the other side of the room.

Stiles blinks through his confusion, looking between both of them.

“We decided to relieve you of the watch duty,” Lydia adds, gracefully sliding into the chair next to Jordan, then turns to Stiles with a look that’s both gentle and steel. “Go home, Stiles. Get some sleep and come back rested or I’m never helping you with runes again.”

Stiles’ mouth hangs open, shocked at the– the absolute _betrayal._ Void, though, Void perks up right away, the hand sliding up Stiles’ back to his shoulder where he squeezes intently.

“Perfect. Now you have no more excuses,” the demon says, already shifting to stand up and drag him with. “Come on, Stiles, I’m driving. Or do you want me to leave the jeep?”

Stiles’ appalled, utterly betrayed eyes turn to Void, who only arches an ironic eyebrow at him – it looks as if he’s fully prepared to teleport them home, which as incredulous as it sounds, but Stiles is pretty sure the demon is capable of achieving. And he’d totally do it just to spite Stiles, the asshole, which is exactly why Stiles relents after only two seconds of glaring. Absolutely _not_ because the thought of going home with Void made anticipation prickle all over his spine.

“Goddammit, _fine_ , I’m going.”

It comes out sounding more petulant than he’d like it to, but the absolutely too good looking grin stretching Void’s lips distracts him, just a little. And Stiles slaps himself mentally for the thought just as the grin turns swiftly into a smirk. The asshole. When Stiles stands up from the chair, mouth pulled into a frown, Lydia and Jordan watch him with varying versions of their own, as if not completely trusting him to follow through his own words. It’s a bit irritating, honestly, but it barely holds Stiles’ attention as Void immediately follows in his steps – and it’s _unfair_ how more fluid his moves are, just a fucking walking grace and confidence embodied. It pisses Stiles off. Mostly because he finds himself wanting to just watch the demon.

Forcefully throwing that thread of thought out of his head, Stiles turns around, fully prepared to leave, takes two steps, and stops abruptly.

“Stiles?”

Lydia’s worried voice reaches his ears, but it’s Void stopping beside him, watching intently as Stiles looks over the door. And he knows, realistically, that his dad is safe, that the operation went well and he’s healing, but at the same time – the hospital never seemed to be a safe place in and of itself. Which is exactly why Stiles reaches out his hand to Void and gives him an expectant look as his shadow raises a questioning brow again.

“I can’t cut myself,” he says in lieu of explaining, because he doesn’t have anything sharp on himself – maybe he’ll need to start carrying something in the future? – and Void catches on immediately.

Fox-sharp claw dips into his palm without hesitation, a small pinprick of pain that turns into a thrill the same second then disappears completely. The blood pools in his left hand and Stiles takes a drop on his right pointer finger before the wound closes, then steps close to the door, promptly starting to draw runes. The commotion behind him quiets – he can only imagine both Lydia and Jordan surging up at the sight of claws – but Stiles is too focused to pay attention to anything other than the intent guiding his hand, the humming in his veins, magic filling up and spilling out into the room to fulfill his wishes. Only as he finishes the two sigils Stiles releases a breath, then waves his hand to hide the runes – they flash golden and then disappear under the cloaking. Now, _now_ he can leave.

As he turns to look back, Void’s wearing a small, secretive smile, but his obsidian eyes shine in a way that makes Stiles’ blood run a little hotter. In his peripheral he catches onto the understanding in Lydia’s face – and total confusion in Jordan's. _Right_ , the deputy has known Stiles is magic for all of maybe a day.

“It’s runes,” he says, giving a slight smile of his own. Being able to share his magic so… freely feels almost exhilarating.

“What are they for?” Jordan’s question sounds both confused and curious.

“For protection, mostly. The first so no one can attack another inside the room. Other for not letting in anyone meaning harm or that I don’t trust to be inside.” And that makes him stop, biting at his lip. “I– I don’t know if Scott’ll be able to come in… _If_ he even tries to visit.”

The admission hangs heavy in his chest, weighted down with so much more than Stiles has the mind, energy, or desire to look into right now, that when the light, familiar warmth of comfort tugs at the bond, he welcomes it right away. Void doesn’t physically move, but the shadows in Stiles’ chest pulse, in sync with his heart, and smooth over the edges of hurt all the same. Drawing on the steadiness of Void’s presence in their connection, Stiles sends his own quiet thanks down the bond.

To his surprise, though – or maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by now – Jordan only nods in response, a calm resolve in the line of his shoulders, and Lydia smiles – reassuring and understanding him, as she always does, somehow. So Stiles lets himself relax, lets the last of the heavy weight on his shoulders chip off and ignores it in favor of the comfort the body close to him exudes. It’s surprisingly nice. How does he even show his appreciation?

“It’s alright, we’ll be here the whole time,” Lydia soothes, as if reading right out of Stile’s mind, then shoos him out of the room. “Go on, and don’t dare to come back without at least six hours of sleep!”

“Sure, mom,” he mocks back, but his smile is genuine when they exchange their last goodbyes.

And as Stiles steps out of the room, Void’s presence fluidly slips back into him, barely a chill over his senses. Even though still quite a new sensation in this form, Stiles is sure he would already be able to recognize the feeling without any other sign of their merging.

_I thought you said you’re driving._

He quips at the demon, trying to shake off the jitters seemingly embedded into his muscles – both from previous worry and new anticipation.

 _And I’m going too._ Void’s voice is matter-of-fact, but the touch brushing against Stiles’ face feels all too gentle to handle. _You’re too exhausted, little fox, we don’t want any road accidents ruining the day, do we?_

So Stiles sighs and finally relents – at least he knows already that Void’s apparently a good driver and Roscoe’s going to be perfectly fine. That does put him weirdly at ease. And as they step outside the hospital, Void’s back at his side, going straight for the driver seat with a little smirk thrown over his shoulder, finished off with a fucking _wink_ that does too many squirmy, hot things to Stiles’ gut. Still, just for the principle of it, Stiles grumbles – just a bit – under his breath when getting into the passenger seat, but the ride is surprisingly quiet and peaceful. Void drives in a distinctly lazy manner even above the speed limit and it lulls Stiles into a dazed, half-asleep state that seems to wrap his brain in pure fluff. They’re at the house before he can even register what’s happening. It’s only the sound of the engine cutting off that rouses him out of the blissfully empty state.

Stifling a yawn and blinking blearily at the empty spot in the driver's seat, Stiles tries to reorient himself only to almost bang his head against the roof as his door swings open. Void’s all but grinning at him, leaned on Roscoe’s side and eyes slowly trailing over Stiles.

“Come on, darling, or shall I drag you out?”

The quick image flashing through Stiles’ head makes something warm and squirmy stir in his gut, which is exactly what he needs to finally wake up his brain and clamber out of the jeep on his own. Void watches Stiles fumbling and stumbling with his usual level of amusement, locking the car up after Stiles and following him to the house like it’s a perfectly normal thing they’ve been doing all the time. And it doesn’t even cross his mind if Void would be able to come in – although he just reinforced the wards a few days prior – so it’s only as the door clicks shut behind both of them that Stiles freezes up. Already halfway to the stairs and air stuck in his lungs, because– because–

“Something the matter?”

The voice is low, somehow smooth yet still with that raspy quality that thrills something deep inside Stiles, and he can _feel_ Void stepping closer.

A hand brushes his lower back – tangible, _physical_ , and not just an impression – the touch is _real_ , a heaviness to it that has only partly to do with weight and everything with how Stiles shudders in response.

“Stiles?”

The hand presses more firmly into his lower back, spreading warmth over and under his skin just as Void steps even closer, as his chest brushes Stiles’ arm–

Gasping, Stiles jumps up and away, a spike of something sharp, bitter, _hurt_ , cutting down the connection. It immediately disperses into the steady, cool comfort he recognizes easily, but it’s not enough for the way his heartbeat goes from a jog to a sprint, thudding on his ribs with bruising strength.

Stiles staggers on his feet and crashes into a wall, only half registering how Void stopped himself from reaching out. His whole body trembles as he slides down the wall to sit on the cold floor.

“It’s real–” he gasps blearily to himself, not able to look at his shadow – tangible, physical, _solid,_ like _he’s right there_ – crouching down beside him, but not trying to touch again. “It’s– You are–”

Something hot and fierce and _aching_ builds up inside his chest, a stark contrast to the freezing panic trapping his lungs, and the pure whiplash of it throws Stiles’ off so much so he can’t even _think._ His vision blurs and his breath stutters and it’s tight, it’s so tight, he can’t–

“Stiles, look at me.”

Void’s steady, almost commanding voice cuts right through the painful daze, able to immediately catch Stiles’ attention, to make him follow and meet the heavy gaze that locks and arrests him in place. Not allowing him to look away even for a blink.

“It is real. Not a dream, not a nightmare, not a trick of your brain. It’s all real, Stiles. _I_ am real.”

The way he says it, sure and confident, the words seemingly thrumming along the bond, somehow eases the hold of panic, letting Stiles take a deeper breath and realize he’s clutching at his chest, right over the shadow-rune. Void’s eyes flick down to it almost the same second, considering for a short moment before the demon reaches out, slowly and watching for a reaction, but Stiles can’t move, can barely breathe – can only accept the probing warmth slipping down their connection and shudder weaky at the feel of cool, smooth skin covering his hand. Fingers slip between his own, longer and pale even against his complexion, then slowly ease off the way Stiles is clawing at the rune – and it starts to pulse with low simmering heat, a steady beat he subconsciously tries to match.

“Is this alright?” The demon asks, a quiet murmur, as he cradles Stiles’ hand in his own, a gesture so gentle and soft it makes him want to fall apart right there and then – just so Void can put him together in whichever way he pleases.

“Yeah, I–” Thumb brushes over Stiles’ knuckles and something uncoils deep within the shadows of his chest, loosens the tight hold in his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s okay...”

Dark eyes continue to watch him, that innate focus so visceral it almost feels tangible – tracing the lines of his face, the slowly calming raise of his chest – and somehow watching Void pay so much undivided attention to _Stiles_ keeps his own mind completely on Void, drawing him out of the panic into idle thoughts of how shadows play over the demon’s sharp features; pale skin and full lips, thinner brows, the exact same moles. When their gazes finally meet again, Stiles is almost calmed down, a new kind of tension in-between his ribs at the sight of Void’s mouth curling up.

“Back with me, little fox?”

The nickname rings with sincere affection down the bond and permeates the air with a light, honey sweetness that makes Stiles lick his lips, trying to taste it. At the same time Stiles realizes he can _smell_ something new– or _not_ , not exactly new, he’s encountered it before and it must’ve been around for a while, but he was too preoccupied to notice before and is still too off-kilter to identify now. And it’s making his gut heat up in that squirmy way that’s all too familiar while putting his nerves at ease at the same time. What could it possibly be…

The fingers cradling his hand tighten, just the tiniest bit, just enough to bring him into the present, and Stiles can’t stop the flush that warms up his face.

“Yeah, yeah I’m back,” he finally manages, nodding slightly, brain scattered somewhere between the receding wisps of panic and the way Void’s lips quirk into a small smile.

“Good.”

Then he helps Stiles up to his feet before stirring him upstairs, just a slight push right into the direction of the shower with barely a few words in-between. And Stiles follows without question, slightly off-balance and still partly trapped in his head -in the way the new scent tickles at his nose and can almost be tasted on his tongue. It cuts off as soon as he steps into his bathroom, but Stiles can barely spare that little fact any mind when he has to fight his own weak limbs to properly undress. And yet, the second warm water hits his skin some of the tension releases, uncoiling deep within his core, where the panic squeezed tight around his insides, and his brain decides it’s the perfect moment to reboot – then throw him back down the spiral he barely escaped.

Everything splinters and falls apart around Stiles, the reality of his situation settling on his shoulders so heavy he has to physically lean on the tiled wall. His knees buckle and Stiles gulps in heavy bouts of air, tightening his side of the connection so the new wave of feelings doesn’t immediately alert the demon.

And even with the bond partly closed, he can still feel Void in the bedroom, bored and idly entertaining himself with whatever, even when clearly on alert. It’s likely Stiles didn’t really succeed with cutting off his own emotions in time, but Void also seems to be pointedly acknowledging his need for privacy and looking the other way. Somehow, despite not withdrawing from the bond and staying open in it, Void still makes it so easy for Stiles to hold back on his end. The revelation spikes right into his lungs – piercing, hot pain searing right through Stiles’ chest.

Pushing away the panic trying to rise anew, Stiles focuses on taking long, drawn-out breaths and finally decides to throw caution out the window – to face the boxes that opened and spilled their contents all over his frantic mind. Because it’s actually _real_ , this time. Stiles let Void out, gave him his freedom back, and the demon _stayed_. Is still just a door away, present in their connection, wide and deeply rooted – so deeply in fact that it’s quite frightening. And it’s still the Nogitsune, the one that made him question reality, gave him terrifying nightmares that haunted him awake, killed people while in his body – and it’s the same one that gave Stiles his magic, helped him with controlling it, with exploring it’s potential, that calmed him down from his panic attacks now and helped him _save his dad_. The conflicting thoughts rage – a storm in the darkness of his rib-cage, crackling against his bones – and yet among it something stands out.

The memory of phantom caress, of falling asleep cocooned in cool embrace, of warmth spreading from a feather-light touch, a ghostly sensation waking shivers in its path. One memory, one dream, a nightmare and a clearing, nag at Stiles, but he pushes it back – for this one he’s not ready. But as he stands under the spray – the droplets running down his spine a weak imitation of what he craves – other dreams come to mind, heating up the skin on his face and stirring in his gut, a voice just behind his ear, raspy and low, a dirty kind of secret–

Biting down on his lip, _hard_ , Stiles turns to reach for the soap, to distract himself from the thoughts, from the arousal clearly squirming deep down in his groin. The shadows under his rune writhe, almost impatient, but Stiles swats at them, takes a deep breath, and focuses on finding the magic buzzing in his veins – it responds eagerly and the surge of power is enough to redirect his mind.

As he finally steps out of the shower – haphazardly drying himself to put on some soft pajama pants and drag a worn, gray shirt over his head – he’s got no more answers than he had before. The only thing Stiles knows for sure, can’t lie to himself about any more, is quite simple – he wants Void to stay. Wants him, in the bond and at his side – his presence, his voice, his _touch_. Wants to _be wanted,_ so much so it’s terrifying. The possibility of the demon just _leaving_ tears at his very being. And it should probably scare him away, but Stiles can’t muster the strength to fight it. This one thing, at least, he’ll admit; quietly, to himself, in the shadows curling around his heart.

Still, as he steps back to the bedroom and Void’s eyes find him, Stiles can’t help but freeze up. Too many conflicting thoughts and feelings run through him to help in any way as Void gaze takes him in – searching and attentive as always, slowly dragging over Stiles and making small sparks break out across Stiles’ skin. It’s mounting to be too much, this simple thing, and yet just the moment Stiles feels like breaking – Void turns away to something on the desk he’s looking over, the tree-design most probably, but why–

“Do you want me to go?”

Stiles flinches, the words cutting across his chest in a way that _hurts,_ too fucking much, unexpected and sharp, even as the tone is soft – or maybe just because of it.

“ _No._ ”

And he _means it_ , even if it quivers, even if he still can’t move from where he froze in the doorway – but the way Void looks back over his shoulder at Stiles, eyes hooded and dark, uncoils something warm, aching almost sweetly in Stiles’ chest.

“Alright, then. Do go on and get some rest, little one.”

As if that’s the only thing he needed to unfreeze himself, Stiles finally moves towards the bed and slips under the covers before he can lose his nerve, heart strangely pounding against his lungs; a bit frantic, a bit too hot. Settling in and nuzzling into the pillow, Stiles tries to calm down, to get back into that fuzzy, dazed state and fall asleep, but after just a few minutes of twitching, squirming and the blankets almost smothering him, he gives up the pretense.

“ _Void_...”

His voice is barely even audible from where he half-smushed his face into the pillow, but the demon hears him anyway, turning to look over his shoulder with one brow curved up. Stiles squirms, unable to get the words out, and it takes Void another second of looking at the lump of blankets that is Stiles before he’s moving closer, a grace to his movements that Stiles instantly envies but could watch for hours anyway.

“What do you need, Stiles?”

And that’s just plain _unfair_ , because Void probably already knows, still–

The scent gets heavier as the demon sits down on the edge of the bed, rushing right up to Stiles’ head – still undefinable in the off-balance state Stiles is in, yet soothing his nerves in a completely new and strange but very welcoming way all the same. It’s almost tempting to sniff at the air, to get more of it in his lungs, but Void’s sharply-focused eyes keep Stiles arrested – pinned to what he was about to ask.

“Could you... uh–”

How does he even word it? When he can’t really tell himself? It was never addressed, never admitted before–

“Of course.” Void hums lowly in his throat, a sound that seems caught somewhere between a purr and a growl, and Stiles’ every nerve fires up as he leans a little closer. “How do you want me?”

Stiles shudders, barely able to bite back the whimper before it can escape – the way those words and tone absolutely wreck a white-hot shiver right through his whole body shouldn’t even be _possible_. What’s worse, the demon seems genuine, perfectly innocent, even through the downright filthy quality of those words. Or maybe it’s Stiles’ brain adding–

Void’s dark eyes gleam in a distinctly amused way and _of course, innocent my ass–_

Still, the possible _what ifs_ flood his brain and Stiles has to forcibly gather his nerves – before the thoughts can travel, before the spark in Void’s gaze can raise into an inferno Stiles wouldn’t be able to resist. And so, swallowing through the dryness in his throat, Stiles braves into asking for what he _really_ had in mind.

“I just– I guess having you in my mind, now, while you’re already free and, well, physical, would be a bit weird, but...”

Stiles picks at the blankets, wringing it between his fingers because apparently he still can’t quite spit it out or even face Void properly.

“Why would it be? It’s not a problem for me.”

“But–”

Why won’t it just _get out_ of his throat? What is he even trying to accomplish here?

Fidgeting and pulling at the blanket almost to the point of tearing it, Stiles almost whines from his own frustration. And Void’s patient, but after a moment of Stiles just about fighting to not strangle himself with the covers, he finally reaches out to steady Stiles’ hands with a firm grip, the cool touch exuding surprising warmth.

“What is it? Tell me, Stiles.” There’s an undercurrent of steel to the low murmur – then Void narrows his eyes and leans even closer, an arm braced beside Stiles’ head. “Or do you want me to _make_ you?”

The shivery hot feeling in Stiles’ gut writhes at the implication, but it’s meant half-joking – and works to finally make him spit it out. His lungs ache when it slips out, a whisper on barely a breath.

“Will you stay?”

Void blinks, cocking his head to the side. Almost– almost like it’s _silly_ , like he didn’t expect it.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah, yes. Stay? Please?”

The heart in Stiles’ chest skips a few heavy beats at how Void looks at him then – just looks – quiet and still, as if drinking in the sight, eyes slowly dragging all over his face. And Stiles fights back against his fidgeting, trying to be patient, and all the while his blood rushes hot under his skin.

Then finally– _finally_ Void shifts – brings his hand up to curl under Stiles’ jaw, thumb following the sharp line of the bone underneath pale skin. And his eyes trace the movement, something like a sigh escaping the demon’s chest before he’s leaning all the way down to brush their noses together.

If not for the way it absolutely pins Stiles in place, he’d be meeting Void halfway with how the simple gesture makes his whole being sing in content.

“Of course, little fox,” the demon answers, barely above a whisper and hot breath fanning over Stiles’ wet lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The air rushes out of Stiles’ lungs, filled with bone-melting relief and the scent that makes his mind spin; it’s so strong now, so potent and delightful he wants to bury himself in it. But before he can turn into it more fully, Void tips his head and drags warm lips over Stiles’ cheekbone in a touch so light, so tender it just about tears the gasp out of Stiles. And then Void’s gone again, slipping back into Stiles’ mind with barely a chill, the touch turning phantom as a familiar enough embrace surrounds him at all sides – but it’s just that, a ghost. The difference is so fucking obvious now, so... _beyond compare_ , that it stings, in his chest and right just under his eyelids, blurry and wet.

The phantom presence solidifies, as much as it’s possible for something intangible, and floods the bond with reassurance, with calm and warmth – and even if the sting doesn’t completely go away, at least it’s enough to make breathing easier again. At the same time, the shadows in-between Stiles’ ribs pulse in sync with his heart, the rune exuding and spreading heat over his skin, and it’s– _It’s okay_ , for now. So Stiles buries himself in the blankets, in his pillows, trying to breathe in as much of the leftover scent as he can, and falls asleep.

✦✧✦✧

It’s hard to tell, at first, what woke him up. The room is still shrouded in darkness, he didn’t have any particular dreams or can’t remember any of them, but something did stir him awake. And then, just as he’s inspecting his empty room, still bleary and head heavy from sleep, it hits Stiles like a gut punch.

He’s alone.

And he shouldn’t, realistically speaking, be surprised – it’s a pretty normal occurrence – but this time it seizes Stiles’ lungs in freezing panic.

Shaking and gasping, Stiles tries to sit up, to take some air, _any air_ , in to breath properly, patting around the bed as if he’ll find something besides the blankets and pillows. With his mind full of half-screams and whimpers, Stiles searches in the darkest corners, where the shadows are pitch black, for– for–

And through the panic he doesn’t even think to check on the connection embedded in his chest – and maybe that’s because it’s _so quiet_ , so withdrawn, that for those few terrifying seconds Stiles basically _forgets_ it’s there.

The dream, the _nightmare_ – never forgotten, but strongly repressed – comes back in vivid detail, and Stiles is already starting to hyperventilate when something, finally, shifts in the air.

Hands grip his shoulders, firm and grounding, low voice urging him to _breathe, Stiles_ – so he does, following the steady tone, the calm instructions to inhale in through his nose, to count down, exhale through his mouth, and repeat. Somewhere along the way, trying not to choke on his heart beating frantically up in his throat, Stiles latches onto the strong arms keeping him up. And in the process he leans close enough so his nose fills with the scent that’s still prominent in the bedroom, but that he couldn’t focus on until it’s _right here_ , right beside Stiles, heavy and potent and wrapping around him like a fluffy cloud of comfort, fuzzing over his brain until his breathing slows down, until his heart settles back under the rune, and Stiles can, _just_ , slump into the waiting embrace of his shadow.

“I thought–”

And he can’t even finish, because– because– it’s too loaded to express.

For a moment there, Stiles was sure he’s all alone again. Abandoned. Because _of course_ he’d get abandoned the second it’s possible. Or maybe he _had_ imagined the whole thing. Or maybe it was never real in the first place, just his brain – like he tried to convince himself months, basically a year ago. And he thought, he thought–

Fingers brush up into his hair, carding through tangled, short strands, and Void’s chest raises in a deep sigh under Stiles’ forehead.

“I know,” he says simply, a long exhale tickling warmly over Stiles’ skin. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

It’s the words as much as the quiet, apologizing tone that startles Stiles enough to lean back, away from the embrace, and look up at the demon – a millennia-old, maybe even older, fox spirit without any semblance of human morals, _being sorry_. To him. To _Stiles._

“Where were you?” he asks, voice hoarse and torn apart, blinking away whatever stinging blurriness had already gathered to focus on the demon. _Why_ is Stiles so shaken…

Void looks him over with something close to thoughtful in his gaze, something almost… hesitant. Then a long breath leaves his lungs and Void’s hands slip down Stiles’ shoulders.

“I wanted to retrieve something of mine.”

And before Stiles can even try to ask, Void brings one of his hands up, fingers brushing at and away from his sternum, as if– as if the demon was _pulling_ something out from the inside of his own chest. Immediately captivated, Stiles gasps weakly as a silvery-white shine forms right over Void’s palm – a perfectly round shape of pure light. It looks both solid and ethereal, so bright it should burn, yet seems almost gentle in its presence – but maybe it’s Void’s doing, too, so Stiles can even see it. And he has a pretty good idea of what it is.

“Is that your…?”

For some reason, he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. It feels almost… too intimate, too personal, and at the same time too grand; to try and put it into words.

 _Hoshi-no-tama_ , the “start ball”, the gem holding most or at least some of the Kitsune’s magic, maybe even a part of their soul. That is – according to every source Stiles could take a hold of all those months ago. He remembers reading about it so clearly as if he just did now. Still, somehow, he’s never asked Void about his – and now, now–

The demon smiles – a small, barely-there thing – and Stiles’ heart stutters in his chest.

“It is.”

Stiles licks his lips nervously, looking back at the pure star-like ball, and decides it’s not actually silver or white – all the colors shift and twine in the light, so bright it seems like there’s only one shine to it. But that’s only an illusion, far more to it than meets the eye.

Driven with his unending curiosity, Stiles reaches up – and freezes halfway, catching himself with heart in his throat. And yet, when he looks up at Void, the demon’s black eyes only reflect the silver glow, as dark and attentive as ever.

“Go on,” Void murmurs, one corner of his mouth quirking up, “you can touch it.”

And still – his gaze never felt heavier.

Hesitating just for a second longer, Stiles finally takes the offered show of faith and slowly reaches up – and when his fingertips graze the edges of the shining gem, a strike of burning electricity zaps down his body so hot it tears the gasp right out of his lips. It’s not even solid to touch, nothing like shape or texture under his skin, but something – something like pure energy, like the feeling of wind sweeping between his fingers or the heat of fire when one gets their hand too close to the flames. Magical and ethereal and Stiles’ own power buzzing eagerly in his veins – curious and delighted.

Grazing his fingertips over the intangible form of it, Stiles doesn’t dare to try and hold it – instead, he braves through his fear to look up at Void. And the demon’s expression stills the very air in his lungs.

A bright flush burns in his face and Stiles finally takes his hand back, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Thank you...”

Surprisingly, Void just chuckles before closing up his palm and tucking away the star-like gem as if pushing it back inside his own chest. Stiles has no delusions, though, that it’s hidden somewhere so safe only Void would be able to access it.

“I should be the one thanking you, little fox. And this might be more important to you – I stopped at the hospital, too.”

“Should I be worried about anyone finding more dead bodies?” Stiles tries to make it a joke, but his voice comes out a little bit too quivering and hoarse to be convincing.

Void’s eyes narrow down at him, giving him a look that’s a mix between exasperation and a warning. Still, there’s a smile ghosting over the demon’s lips, and Stiles has to bite back his own. It’s all so surreal, and yet– _and yet_ –

Somehow, Stiles is absolutely sure that, at least this time, the demon did what they’ve been already doing through all those last months – after all, there’s always an abundance of pain at the hospital. But then–

“Is it enough?”

After all this time, after starving for so long and barely getting anything before being trapped again. With the way Stiles can still clearly feel Void holding back his obvious hunger, he can’t help but be worried, even if maybe he shouldn’t.

“For now,” is the only thing the demon says, the words hanging heavily in the air.

And Stiles can easily guess just what Void means.

“Well, then,” clearing his throat, Stiles fidgets, all the nerves alight again, “did you, maybe– maybe check on dad, how he’s–”

And the tension that thickened all the air around them unravels slowly, slipping away in favor of the warmth trickling along their bond and the small, almost gentle smile on Void’s lips.

“Still asleep and recovering, you have nothing to worry about, little fox. And your friends are still watching over him.”

“Good, that’s– good,” he decides, nodding as he licks his lips over, _almost_ tasting that delicious scent permeating the air.

With every other distraction out of the way, his mind catches on it yet again. And not really noticing what he’s doing, Stiles draws in a deep breath, far, _far_ _deeper_ than normally, and all the tension immediately bleeds out of him at the way it fills his chest, the way it slides down his tongue sweet and spicy and fresh all at once. Blinking blearily, Stiles follows the scent as if it’s pulling him in. And as he leans to take more into his lungs, to find a way to get it all over him, Stiles almost bumps heads with the demon.

Mortified, he tries to jump back, but Void’s already gripping him by the waist and keeping him firmly in place. Amusement paints Void’s low chuckle, sparkling the fathomless depths of his eyes and before Stiles knows it, the demon draws him in closer – he brushes his cheek on the side of Stiles’ face, down his jaw and neck, inhaling long and deep and–

“It’s yours–” he realizes, feeling both utterly stupid and wholly baffled, not even fighting the little, delighted shivers crackling over his skin.

“Hm?” Void only hums, something like agreement or a prompt to go on, and continues to scent Stiles, returning his fingers to Stiles’ hair in a familiar caress.

“The smell– well, the _scent_ , I guess, it’s–” he has to wet his parched lips, stretching out his neck without even a thought behind it – much to Void’s clear delight, “–it’s yours, isn’t it?”

“So your senses are still getting stronger,” Void muses, nosing at Stiles’ throat lazily – all the way from his shoulder up to his ear, inhaling a deep, long breath as if trying to fill his lung the way Stiles wanted to do just moments ago, then– “Do you like it?”

And Stiles can’t keep his face from flooding with a burning blush.

“Uh, yeah, yes, it’s nice.”

“Good. I like you smelling of me too.”

And _oh god_ does that make the squirmy, hot feeling coiled in Stiles’ gut even worse than the burn in his face, thrilling at how Void’s steadily bringing Stiles closer – pulling him in with one arm around his waist and tightening just a fraction ever so often, those fingers carding through his hair, massaging and nails scraping in a perfect, practiced ease, because the demon surely knows just how Stiles _fucking melts_ under this much affection, carefully engineered just for him.

On some level, Stiles was always aware of how touch and affection starved he is – he loves hugs as much as the next person, but there was always something in him, something craving and needing much more, much, _much_ more _._ He would have never thought that _this_ is exactly what he has been craving for so long now. And, of course, that realization makes him squirm nervously, awkward and wanting to distract his brain with _anything_ , because what could he do–

“So, uh, it’s scenting, right?”

That’s at least something he remembers Derek talking about, so long ago. And maybe it’s not that much of a distraction, still– Void stops, leaning back and eyeing Stiles carefully, but his move makes Stiles’ insides scream in protest of losing the comfort.

“Yes, do you not want it?”

 _Fuck,_ no, that’s not–

“No, no, I do, I just...”

And that's when Stiles realizes that, in fact, he wants _more_. And Void senses it, apparently, or it’s just so obvious from how fidgety Stiles gets, because he smiles that amused, _fond_ smile of his that borders on teasing – then Void’s grip around Stiles’ waist tightens and he pulls Stiles closer yet again.

His heart beating all the way up in his throat, Stiles lets himself press into the demon, into his chest and neck, as flush as it’s possible in the way they sit. And the simple touch soothes something deep inside Stiles, something he didn’t even know needed it, making all the tension that gathered back slowly bleed out on an exhale and that comforting, fuzzy warmth rush back into his body with a long inhale. Without any more prompting, Stiles slumps right into Void’s open arms, burying his face in the demon’s neck and repeating the exact same motions – scenting, _marking_ , sharing and relishing the bond that thrums, satisfied, in-between them, connecting and binding together.

Just a few seconds later Stiles turns to complete mush against Void’s body, latched onto his shadow with arms tightly around his waist, but it’s lazy and relaxed and filled with the quiet, calm sort of fluffy happiness. It’s surreal, in a way, but at the same time, Stiles wouldn’t mind staying just like this.

Void chuckles, a low sound more felt in the vibrations of his chest than heard.

“Better, little fox?”

And this time it’s Stiles only humming back an answer.

There’s an unexplainable need inside him, a primal, ancient instinct to share in their scents, to saturate them both in each other that drives every move Stiles makes now. And, in the process, he inhales as much as he can, trying to roll it on his tongue, find the different layers, deconstruct the smell that makes his brain finally shut up, content and seemingly wrapped in a blanket of fuzzy warmth. It’s the most dizzying, mouth-watering and at the same time calming mix of flavors Stiles has ever experienced. And he’s very possibly not able to dissect them all, but there’s a few standing out.

Sweet and heavy and fresh – lilac, _bez,_ branches full of small flowers, growing in his babcia’s garden in Poland, saturating the evening air in the most comforting, most sweet smell, almost physical enough to taste it; the beauty and wilderness of nature. There’s spice, sharp and hot and biting on his tongue. But it’s also ozone and storm and fresh cold air in the middle of a forest at midnight, crisp and nipping at his skin. Metal and blades and leather, strong, steady, _dangerous_. A strong current high in the mountains, a waterfall hidden away. Heady, shiver-inducing passion like liquid honey or dark chocolate.

Layers upon layers, a mix going straight to Stiles’ head and, some, deep down to his stomach, coiled in a ball of completely different tension at the base of his spine. But Void’s touch doesn’t change even when he must know, staying only as a comforting caress along Stiles’ back, brushing away his hair, and Stiles takes one last, long breath, before releasing that particular tension in the air and relaxing back into the warm hug, letting his mind go back to that half-dazed state.

“It’s still hours before dawn,” Void murmurs, close to his ear. “Think you could sleep some more?”

Stiles shifts, considering the impossibly soft material of Void’s black shirt – did he change clothes somewhere through the night? – and doesn’t try to question the decision he arrives at; just follows the instinct that makes him tug the demon closer.

“You’re staying, for real this time,” he says, trying for a commanding tone that comes out only as a soft plea – and he's already pulling at Void to make the demon lie down with him.

“ _Of course._ ” Void chuckles lightly, voice raspy and clearly amused, and yet he lets Stiles drag him under the blankets without even a hitch.

And few seconds later Stiles finds himself on his side and loosely twined together with Void – face smushed partly in his chest, partly in his shoulder – but he still shifts a little bit closer to circle his own arm around Void’s waist. The demon makes a low sound in his throat that reverberates through his chest, a low growl that’s closer to a purr, and Stiles can’t help his own little smile as he snuggles as close to Void as physically possible.

He’ll probably die from embarrassment later, but for now – for now, Stiles has never been more content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's no cuddling and snuggling in bed then what's the point, am I right? Lmao. A lot packed into this chapter, but I hope it was a nice read! What do y'all think? Did you enjoy it? I was a bit unsure about how exactly should I write Melissa, so what do you think of her character here? I could go for more drama with her, but ehhh, I'm not about that, tbh ;p It's all about coming together for ma boyz now ^^ Do y'all like Void out and about now? I definitely love writing him, hah. Let me know what you think of this chapter! I love reading your thoughts, they fuel me in a way I can't thank you enough for ❤
> 
> As always I'm over on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - so find me there if that's your thing! Also, I recently posted some Voiles smut, so if you're interested in that, go check out ["Work for it"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268262) ^^ 
> 
> Aaaand the year's ending, huh? I guess it's fitting to post this chapter then, with how this fic - and Voiles overall - just took over my life this year, hah. This story is the second longfic WIP I'm sure I'm going to finish and it's already longer than the first. Like, damn, I'm pretty sure I wrote more this year than through most of my life before 2020, which is CRAZY. And I did injure my wrists pretty badly in the process ;p But as much as I regret not taking better care of them, I absolutely _don't_ \- in any way, shape or form - regret writing and posting this fic. I finally got more involved in fandom, made some friends, got the best readers out there - ❤❤❤ - and just generally had an amazing fanfic-experience despite all the craziness of this year. So yeah, just wanted to get this out here ;p  
> That out of the way - Happy New Year y'all! And happy celebration on New Year's Eve, if you do that ^^ Let's be gentle on ourselves in the new year and hope to make it a little bit better! I will certainly try to give you something nice to read with the updates that are left, hah - and even more Voiles to come besides that ^^
> 
> All the love to y'all, you made my year much, much better than I could imagine it being, and I can't thank you enough for that. Hopefully, this fic provided y'all some nice distraction ^^ And keeps on providing that, hah.  
> Love y'all, take care and all the hugs ❤❤❤


	20. second to none

It’s already bright in the room the next time Stiles wakes up.

He comes to slowly, buried in blankets and curled up so perfectly he wouldn’t mind staying in the fuzzy half-asleep state forever. But his consciousness is steadily coming back, pulling him up into the real world, even when Stiles clings to the blurry edges. The first thing he becomes aware of then is the soft material under his cheek and beyond it something tangibly harder than his puffy pillow should feel like. His brow scrunches up in confusion as he takes a deep breath–

The _smell –_ it’s so _good_ , so familiar and rich. It fluffs up the sleepy haze still covering his mind so wonderfully Stiles can only think to nuzzle his face further into the source, snuggling closer as the scent wraps itself around his senses and his fingers close around the cloth–

And Stiles comes instantly awake at the rumble right under his ear.

There’s an arm coiled snug around his waist, one hand on his lower back and another on his hip, a distinct pressure that kicks up his heartbeat to twice its normal pace. His muscles seize up at the realization, the whiplash of coming awake so fast to something so out of ordinary, so unexpected and warm and _oh god_ – All at once Stiles remembers what occurred yesterday, what led to how they are right now and that– that’s–

The sound repeats itself, a low growl that’s more like a purr, and the vibrations seep right into Stiles’ own chest, trickling down his spine in little sparks of awareness. A thumb brushes over his hip-bone, the touch light, almost teasing, and yet feeling like electricity despite the threadbare shirt – and the fingers splaying wide in the dip of Stiles’ lower back are absolutely _not_ helping him calm the sudden buzz in his blood.

“Finally back with me, little fox?”

Void’s voice sounds rough, far more gravely than usual, as if he himself just woke up, and Stiles is suddenly thankful his face is hidden from sight, flooded with heat at the way the sound slips down his body. Slow and warm and lazy, making him squirm and press even closer in a weak attempt at escaping. He could swear the demon does it on purpose.

Relaxing the grip on Void’s shirt, Stiles tries to consciously slow down his breath and clear his spinning mind; unlock his rigid muscles as he anxiously chews on his lips.

“Stiles?”

The hand at his lower back moves, trailing higher along his spine, and it’s almost impossible not to arch into the touch.

“Yeah?”

 _The actual fuck_ is that doing to him?! Stiles is barely holding back the whimper that’s _just_ hovering behind his tightly pressed mouth. And when fingers brush up into his hair, just barely a touch over his neck and a scraping pressure over his scalp, he can’t stop the shiver.

“Something the matter?”

The demon sounds perfectly calm and collected – oh so innocent – but he _must_ be aware of what exactly he’s doing to Stiles. There’s no way nothing seeped through their connection – and even then, with how they’re embraced so snug and flush, Stiles’ rapid heartbeat has to be more than evident.

“No–” The word leaves on an exhale and Stiles presses his lips together for a second; collects himself enough so his voice won’t waver too much. “No, I’m just– overwhelmed, I guess.”

Void hums in response, a low, warm tone, and it stirs the hair on top of Stiles’ head. He traces his thumb in a line of feather-light touch just behind Stiles’ ear and it’s _so hard_ not to melt into this touch, this affection that seems to be so perfectly, carefully engineered just for him.

“You do think too much, little fox,” he says, _purrs_ , nosing into Stiles’ hair as the hand on Stiles’ hip slides up, just to the edge of his shirt, “entirely too much, if you ask me.”

Stiles’ grip slips as his breath hitches, as his heart thuds in his throat, and it’s all spinning out of control far too quickly. Void tightens the grip in Stiles’ hair, pulling in a spine-melting command, and Stiles follows easily, obediently, looking up to those half-lidded, _dark, dark_ eyes, and feels a little bit like falling – off the edge and down, down into darkness.

It’s almost like one of his dreams – except they couldn’t even _begin_ to compare to reality.

Through the warm haze, Stiles is not entirely sure what’s happening or what exactly is he doing as he stretches up, hand pressing over Void’s stomach and the muscles flexing under his fingers. His shirt must have ridden up with the move or maybe he just wanted it to happen – deep down enough his body followed the desire without the conscious effort of his spinning mind – but Void’s gaze brightens and his cool fingers slip right under.

Gooseflesh erupts all over Stiles’ skin, pulsing and heated, a spike of tension coiling in his gut. He needs to clench his jaw to stifle the sound, but at the same time can’t look away, can’t break the hold Void’s gaze has on him, charged and potent and single-minded focus. The cold touch brushes over Stiles’ hip, thumb dipping right in the curve – and it just about tears the soft gasp out of his mouth.

All the while his mind whirls out of control, confused in the face of the sensations stealing away his body, fuzzy from the scent filling his nose, and yet alight from the way Void looks at him. It’d be so easy to give in, to take it, to just let himself go. So easy, so _good_ , he deserves to feel good, right? He could, it’s so close, so close–

A shrill sound cuts into the silence, breaking through and splintering the moment apart.

It makes Stiles flinch so hard he’d probably fall out of bed if not for the hold Void still has on him. And the demon’s grip is almost painful for the second it takes Stiles to reorient himself.

His heart pounds heavy and frantic in his chest as he blinks and looks up, belatedly realizing it must’ve been just his phone, most probably a message. It’s almost always on a high volume ever since their lives took on the craziness of supernatural – no one ever knows when an emergency may happen. Just now, though, it may have been just as much a blessing as a curse.

The potent haze fogging up Stiles’ mind up until that point clears instantly, the shock banishing any and every lewd thought and sensation with its coldness. Which makes Stiles all at once aware of his completely compromising position, half-laying on Void as he is, pressed to his side and much closer than he was just moments ago. He swallows thickly, trying not to think about what his ringing phone might have just interrupted – as he chances a quick glance back, there’s a deep frown on Void’s face, eyes dark and jaw clenched. It seems the demon already pulled him up a considerable amount, and now Stiles can feel the hot breath on his cheek.

Just as he’s about to turn and reach for the phone, Void’s grip tightens on his hip and neck.

“Ignore it,” he growls, a sound so low and dark it’s more vibration than sound, more felt than heard.

Stiles shudders at the firm press holding him in place, but it’s not just that – because with the fingers digging into his flesh come sharp-pointed nails just shy of breaking his skin and the feeling almost makes him moan. They’re not claws, not yet, and still – he’s practically panting at the thought. But–

“It might be important,” he says instead, clenching his hands into fists to keep himself from moving, into Void or away from him. There’s no way he can trust himself right now. “Might be about– about dad.”

And isn’t it a sobering thought? That his dad is still in the hospital, recovering from his wounds, and Stiles is fooling around in bed– with the demon that–

His mouth goes dry – just as much from his own mind as from the way Void’s hands flex on his skin – and he doesn’t dare move, caught up in his own internal battle. Then a small growl rumbles in Void’s chest, reverberating right into Stiles, still pressed flush as they are, and his grip loosens, hands brushing over almost-bruises with delicate care.

“You’re right,” the demon relents in a soft murmur. When Stiles looks at him, slightly surprised, his face is smooth, no trace of the previous irritation. Void’s lips only quirk in the corners at Stiles’ reaction. “Go on. Check it.”

Hesitating just a second longer, Stiles finally gathers himself and pulls away, awkward and uncoordinated and blushing. Void’s hands slip down from him, leaving gooseflesh and cold emptiness where they’ve been so perfectly flush together, and Stiles tries desperately not to miss the touch. When he finally reaches for the phone, sat on the edge of the bed, the message from Lydia makes him both relieved and slightly nauseous.

“Well?” Void chimes in, as composed as ever and still stretched out under the covers behind him.

Stiles’ heart pounds heavily on his ribs as he reads the words over.

“Dad wants to talk.”

✦✧✦✧

It’s not exactly the first time Stiles ever dreaded being inside Beacon Hills’ hospital. It’s not even the first time the dread came from something other than someone close to him being injured. But it is perhaps the first time the ball of nerves clogging up his throat comes from the fact he’ll need to _talk_ with that someone. There were many times he’s been anxious about one topic or another, yet nothing ever came close to how his heart races now, thudding almost audibly on his ribs. How is he even going to bring it up? If Melissa hasn’t spilled anything already – but no, Lydia barely left, there was not enough time to-

Or there was. And his dad knows. Knows and will get that absolutely awful, soul-crushing disappointed look as he sees Stiles coming in. Will demand he takes it back, tell him it’s not true, that–

A distinct huff sounds in his head, like a flutter of air inside his own lungs.

_Haven’t I told you already you think too much?_

_Ha, very funny._

Stiles licks over his lips and takes a deep breath, watching the numbers change in the elevator.

 _You’re doing it again._ Void sounds weirdly exasperated, before his voice takes on that raspy, smooth quality again, dragging out some words in a lazy manner that makes it so nice – _entirely_ too nice to hear. _Relax, worrying won’t help you now–_

_Like I don’t know that._

_–and besides, even I know the Sheriff wouldn’t ever turn against you._

The elevator door slides open and Stiles walks out with his nerves fried on ends, prickling over his skin.

Maybe Void is right. Maybe his dad would stay on his side, maybe he’d even listen to whatever he has to say and at least try to understand, maybe he’d even forgive him the– the Chemist and Donovan, maybe, but–

_It’s not only about me._

Void hums in response, his cool presence brushing by Stiles, like fingers at his nape and in his hair, like a caress meant for a partner. Stiles tries to ignore it, ignore how his heart skips a beat for a completely different reason than his nerves, and the touch disperses as he stops in front of his dad’s room.

 _I’ll leave you to it,_ Void murmurs, a cold thrill inside Stiles indicating his departure from the way they’ve been merged – but the bond stays open.

_Where will you be?_

_Around._ His voice is dismissive and maybe it should worry Stiles, but it doesn’t. Before Void separates from him, there’s one last feather-light touch to his neck. _You know how to get me when you’ll need me._

And he retreats, away to his own devices, but his word choice doesn’t escape Stiles. _When_ , not _if._ It makes him wonder if Void knows something more or is he just that aware of how attached Stiles has already become, craving his presence every moment he’s away. Fortunately, this time he has other matters to occupy his mind. Mainly – his dad, waiting just inside. So with one last, not-at-all-calming breath, Stiles opens the door and steps inside.

“Hey, son.” His dad smiles that small, genuine smile that speaks more than any words and, just like that, something unravels in Stiles’ chest.

His sight gets a little blurry and he needs to press his lips into a thin line to stop the wavering breath from escaping, but his dad notices, like he always does. Noah’s face softens even more and then he’s putting away the book he’s been reading before gesturing for Stiles with that quiet “c’mere” that makes Stiles basically fall into the waiting, open arms. It’s a close thing, but he manages to keep the sobs inside, take a few deep breaths and calm himself enough to seem somewhat composed as they finally part from the hug. His dad isn’t fooled.

“Hey, look at me,” he says, squeezing at Stiles’ forearm resting on the bed and when Stiles looks up, it almost makes him tear up again, the soft tone his dad uses. “I’m still here, see? And I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles blinks, sniffles, and then tries to smile, though it quivers in the corners.

“Yeah, you better. Or I’m going to magically revive you.”

The sheriff’s face blanches for the quickest moment.

“You could do that?”

And this time Stiles snickers, maybe more from the nerves finally releasing than true humor, but his dad’s face is priceless nonetheless.

“Nah. Or at least I don’t think so.” He shrugs with that, and the truth is – he’s never thought about it. It seemed… wrong. “You know, laws of nature, balance, boundaries, and whatnot.”

There’s a deep, deep part of him, or rather his magic, that feels intrinsically connected to the world, to nature, to the whimsy balance that always flows and changes, but it’s there and it’s undeniable and maybe that’s why he could always trust his gut and why sometimes he doesn’t even have to think much about certain things with his magic but just– does them. Because it feels right.

His dad looks relieved at his words.

“Good. That could be a little too much.” He smiles, good-naturedly, but it ties Stiles’ gut into knots, even before he continues. “No one wanted to tell me what exactly happened.”

Stiles’ heart thuds, drumming heavily on the inside of his ribs.

“Yeah, ugh, well...” _How does he even start?_ “A lot happened.”

The nervous energy flares up again, warring with the buzz in his blood, and Stiles finds himself scratching nails down the back of his neck. Trying to ignore how his dad’s gaze grows ever heavier with worry.

“I’ve heard they found the bodies...”

Stiles tenses, fingers digging into his spine for a second before he forcefully exhales a long breath, relaxing his grip. Then he brings his hand down and clasps both in his lap, just barely looking up from them to his dad.

“I know.” Licking his lips, he’s all at once grateful his dad’s the more patient one, letting him gather his thoughts. And after just a moment of running through the possible ways this conversation could go in his head – _well,_ maybe starting with this isn’t the worst option. “I need to tell you something…”

His dad’s understanding, soft look doesn’t change as he nods.

“I’m listening.”

And with one last exhale, Stiles steels himself for what he needs to say.

“It’s about Donovan.” His fingers pop and crack as he fidgets but somehow manages not to look away. “I don’t know what Theo told you, but whatever crap he tried to sell, it’s probably not true. He wasn’t there, I–” His voice gives out for a second and Stiles needs to blink away the blurriness edging at his vision. “ _I_ killed him. I killed Donovan.”

By the time he ends on a whisper, the room falls silent and his ribcage drums with the beat of his frantic heart, but at the same time the knot tied so tightly in his chest releases, some of the weight on his shoulders chipping off. Whatever his dad’s going to say, at least taking it off feels right. And he doesn’t even seem surprised, it’s like– it’s like he suspected it already, the way his face softens.

“So what really happened?” he asks, a low tone that seems both serious and soothing.

Stiles looks up to meet his dad’s eyes and swallows through dry throat. It’s now or never, it seems.

“I was at the library…”

And he tells everything. How he fell asleep, how the jeep wouldn’t start again, how his rune barely warned him in time, how he pushed Donovan away with his magic and _run_ , how fucking terrified he was, running through the school, then hiding between the bookshelves. And how unbelievably _angry_ it made him to hear Donovan spit threats at _his dad_ , how his magic was already going haywire but then it got only _worse_. How it didn’t warn him the next time and how they ended up beside the scaffolding, how– how–

“I pushed him away, like in the parking lot and– and he hit the scaffolding. I wasn’t–” his throat clogs up, scratchy and dry, but Stiles swallows and continues, trying not to acknowledge the growing worry in his dad’s eyes. “I wasn’t really thinking. My magic… it’s making it hard to think when it’s mad like that, so when he tried to get up, reach at me I– I let it out again, and he hit the scaffolding a second time and– and the beams went loose.”

The image seems imprinted on the back of his eyelids – although slightly blurred through the days that passed, the emotions are clear. Indescribable relief, horror, a spark of sick excitement ( _elation_ even), that he couldn't be sure wasn’t in fact _his_ own, and the absolute power surging through his veins – it makes his blood rush and his heart pound and Stiles still doesn’t know what to make of it. Besides the fact that he probably shouldn’t feel like that after _killing_ someone.

Stiles licks his lips, not quite able to look up, and finishes:

“One went right through him.”

In the silence that follows his heart beats so loudly it almost drowns out his thoughts. Then a hand lands on Stiles’. Rough skin and warm weight, stilling the incessant pulling and popping of his fingers with its familiarity.

“I’m so sorry, son.”

“What?” Stiles blinks, finally looking up only to be met by his dad’s grey eyes so _full_ of emotion. “Why?”

His dad sighs, a small little thing that feels so grand.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” he begins and it’s enough to tie around Stiles’ throat, make his sight blurry, and his dad’s nowhere near finished. “I’m sorry I made it seem like my job is more important than you. I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier how my need to stick to rules made it seem like I wouldn’t understand. I wish–... I wish I paid more attention. I wish I’ve seen I can’t be this– this stiff with my ways, not anymore. But I do, now. And I’m so sorry, Stiles, I am, truly.” He squeezes Stiles’ wrist, eyes so earnest and so heavy and so, so full of love. “You’re my son. You’re second to nothing, _nothing_ , Stiles. I will always choose your side, okay?”

And by that point Stiles is barely keeping himself from sobbing, tears already leaking freely down his cheeks as he flings himself into his dad’s waiting arms, burying into the Stilinski’ hug that’s one of the best things in the world. So Stiles cries and smiles through it and then almost crumbles again when a silent prod comes down the connection.

_Stiles, are you quite alright?_

The voice is imploring, yet soothing, calm and steady like always, and the demon doesn’t come closer to just _look_ at what’s going on, choosing to ask instead. Stiles sniffles, still into his dad’s shoulder, and almost nods.

_Yeah, yeah, just– I need some more time…_

Void hums, that little sound that’s so familiar now that it immediately puts Stiles at ease.

_Of course, as much as you need._

Then there’s one last wave of warmth, like a tender caress from the inside, and Void retreats again, giving Stiles all the privacy he’d need. It makes him grateful and his chest tight and his breath hitch and when he finally leans back from the hug, it dawns on Stiles that that’s another thing he needs to tell his dad about and the dread comes back, even worse now, because this– this–

“Stiles?”

His dad, of course, notices right away and gets instantly worried, so Stiles tries to calm down, wipe away the tears and snot, and accepts the tissues, half-stalling, half-preparing what to say.

“I’m okay, it’s okay,” he assures first, then brings his hands together again, worrying at his fingers. “It’s just– There’s– _Fuck_ , I don’t even know–”

“Hey, hey, calm down, son, it’s okay. Just gather your thoughts.”

The voice and the hand at his shoulder help, even if the dread only pools heavier in his stomach.

“That’s not everything, there’s– there’s more,” he says finally and his voice comes out scratchy, hoarse, barely able to come out around the lump in his throat.

“Whatever it is, I’m here,” his dad promises, hand squeezing reassuringly. “You can tell me.”

And Stiles looks up, at last, blinking away the blurriness and not letting fresh tears escape. He needs to be strong for this, sure of himself – or as sure as he can be. It’s either that or it’ll never work and Stiles–

Stiles _wants_ it to work. He wants it so fucking badly it hurts. He _needs_ it to work. There’s no way he could choose between them. So he bites the bullet and–

“Do you remember the Nogitsune?”

At first his dad’s face fills with confusion, but it lasts only a second before a plethora of emotions passes through and then his brows furrow.

“I couldn’t forget even if I tried, but, _Stiles_ , why are you asking? You’re having nightmares again? Sleepwalking? I–” His dad takes a hard breath, something new and absolutely painful shining in his eyes–

“No, _no_ , no sleepwalking, no nightmares–” Stiles can’t let him finish, can’t hear it, the _please, tell me it’s not back_ that’s so clear in his dad’s eyes and crushes his very lungs “–at least not those kinds of nightmares. I’ve had some premonitions, but that’s not what I need to talk about.”

“Then what is it?” It’s so clear his dad’s trying so hard to be understanding, as open and reassuring as possible. “You don’t have to tell me right now, son, I– I understand it’s hard. But I’m here for you. I want you to know that–”

And Stiles is shaking his head almost immediately, because that’s not an option, not anymore.

“I need to tell you. And I need you to listen. And I know you’ll have questions and you’ll– you’ll probably be mad and will want to interrupt, but, _please_ , I need you to just listen. Just– Just for now. I’ll answer everything later, I promise.”

He tries to convey with his eyes how important that is, how it’s crushing him from the inside and his dad exhales a breath, then nods.

So Stiles takes the deepest breath in the whole day, swallows to somewhat clear his dried out throat, and tries again.

“The Nogitsune, back when we split, when he got himself a– a copy of my body. It kickstarted my magic and it– It left a trace… a connection behind.”

It’s this exact moment that it clicks inside his dad’s mind – Stiles can see it, plain as day, the way his whole face, his whole body –just– slumps on itself. A small shift, one someone less observant may have missed, but it’s _so fucking clear_ to Stiles. But he doesn’t try to interrupt, doesn’t look away or close his eyes, keeping to himself whatever rage or disappointment or worry – or a mix of all – must’ve certainly raised up at the news. Letting Stiles talk and just listening.

And so Stiles truges on.

“He did get trapped then, y’know. I felt it. And then– Then I heard him, sometime later, I don’t remember if it was days or weeks after, but he spoke to me. And he showed up in my dreams, but they– they didn’t feel like those nightmares. I’ve had full control of myself. They weren’t… bad. And he couldn’t possess me again, he just– spoke to me. Told me about my magic. Taught me…”

A little something like surprise shines in his dad’s eyes, less hostile if incredulous, but that– that gives Stiles _hope_. Hope that maybe it’s not lost, not everything, so he keeps on speaking.

“...I asked him to teach me. He’s a magical being and over a thousand years old, figures he’d know a lot about magic, right? And– And he’s met people like me, y’know, Sparks. All of them died pretty quickly, apparently crazed with their power, and that’s– that’s something he warned me about, too. That my magic will grow, constantly, and that it’ll be hard to contain and that–” Stiles shakes his head a little, licking at his lips that got dry and chapped through his talk. “I can feel it already, all the time. It’s constantly growing. And that’s why I have so many runes and tattoos and you know it already, but– He’s helped me with all of that, And– And I don’t think I’d be where I am now without it.”

Stiles stops himself there, lets his voice fade and waits for a reaction. It’s not all he needs to say, not even remotely, but it feels– It feels like he has to hear something, anything, with how hard his heart is beating and how heavy his stomach is and how his mind spins. There’s a sigh from beside him and he chances a glance–

His dad’s face is hard to read, but at least it doesn’t seem like he’s mad, just more… tired.

“And he’s been… in contact with you for, what, all this time?”

“Yeah,” Stiles swallows thickly, fingers cracking loud in the silence of the room, “basically.”

He watches as his dad takes a long, steadying breath and shakes his head a little. Then looks back to Stiles with something like helpless hope and raised brows and seems to know he’s in for a negative answer even before he asks:

“But he’s still trapped, right?”

And Stiles squirms in his place, chewing on his lip and fiddling with his fingers and refuses to meet his dad’s eyes.

“Was? Trapped?” He tries, carefully, steals a glance at the half-devastated, half-resigned expression and his heart thuds. “Until –like– yesterday?”

“Stiles–”

“I let him out.”

He blurts it out, quick and slurred almost to the point of incoherency, but it seems his dad heard him loud and clear – he blinks, gapes, takes a few more breaths, then–

“Why?”

And so Stiles tells him. From the point of his fight with Theo to how they found him, how Void was there with him the whole time, how Stiles couldn’t tell what was wrong with him and couldn’t help Lydia, but Void _could_ and so he made a deal – doesn’t mention just _how much_ he wanted it himself – and Void came through, helped Lydia, so Stiles went and– and let him out. And the demon stayed, came with him–

“He actually found out what’s been poisoning you. Melissa was there too, she saw it.”

His dad listens in silence, brows slightly furrowed and grey eyes shining in unspeakable emotion. There’s a lot hiding behind his gaze, a lot he probably wants to say but stops himself from doing so, seeing how Stiles squirms and wavers with his words. It takes him a moment before he decides on his next words, releasing a deep sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world.

“So where is he now?”

Stiles almost echoes “around” after Void, but catches it in time and frowns, then looks down the bond, just to pinpoint his location without alerting the demon to his peeking – which he probably does anyway, Void’s acutely aware of him at all times, it seems – and finds him not even that far away.

“Here?” Stiles blinks, minutely surprised, before he remembers– “Uh, probably feeding.”

“ _Feeding_?!” His dad’s immediately distressed and Stiles jumps in–

“No! Not like that, _dad_ , he wouldn’t draw attention to himself now,” he says, but it’s the wrong thing, his dad’s still suspicious, and only that reminds him that no one else _knows_. Stiles licks his lips, something like… shame coloring his cheeks. “Ugh, I mean… He’s probably with the terminal patients. Y’know, lots of pain, no hassle. I’ve been actually coming here for… that.”

“So you _feed_ on pain now too?” His dad’s eyebrows draw so high up for a second Stiles worries they might fly off. And his voice gets unusually high too.

It’s also kinda amusing how _that’s_ what works him up.

“I can. But I don’t have to. I, _well_...”

His joints long stopped cracking and popping by this point, but it doesn’t deter Stiles from his fiddling.

“You took it for him.”

Stiles doesn’t grace it with an answer, doesn’t have to, and only peeks a quick look up at his dad’s resigned, tired face. Yet… he could almost think there’s something close to understanding there. It doesn’t make him less nervous, though, still waiting for the verdict that could, by all means, crush this little world he crafted for himself through the last months.

“I gotta be honest with you, Stiles, I… I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, not mad,” Stiles can almost see a ghost of a smile on his dad’s face, before it falls again, “I’m worried.”

“You don’t have to be,” he says, quite uselessly, in a hushed tone, because his dad’s going to worry anyway, but– “Not about this, at least, I… I think I trust him.”

Or he wants to, so badly, the only thing keeping it back still – the fear that, despite all these words, these promises, these touches and caresses and looks and– that the demon will _leave_ , disappear when he gets bored. And it’s terrifying _._

“He won’t hurt any of you, I made him promise and he won’t risk a tail,” Stiles adds, hoping to appeal to his dad somehow.

Noah gives him a long look, a plethora of thoughts and emotions passing behind his tired, wrinkled face, before he nods on a sigh.

“Alright, I trust you on this.” Stiles’s heart skips a beat, not quite believing what he’s hearing, but– “Just one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“That… earthquake, last time, what was it about?”

The memory rushes back, clear cut and bright, making heat creep over Stiles’ face and down his spine. So much happened he almost forgot about that and now– now it thrills that shivery-hot feeling that lives in his gut until it spreads heat through his whole body.

“Ugh, yeah, about that…” He licks his lips, grimaces internally at how dry they feel, then remembers _what_ , exactly, led to that conversation and his mood sours, completely banishing any and all nice feelings. “There’s more to that, too.”

“I’m all ears.”

So Stiles takes a breath, clasps his hands tightly together, and revisits that night. Tells his father about his fallout with Scott, watching as his dad gets first angry, then sad, then says they should work it out, to which Stiles only half-heartedly nods without much confidence behind it, then recounts the bizarre meeting on the road, the Dread Doctors and their weird speech, before– before he gets to the clearing.

“I confronted him about everything, y’know, I just– I just had to know. After Scott… Anyway, Void told me. Everything I wanted. Why– Why he chose me, why it all happened the way it happened, why he decided to teach me. It’s– It was– A lot. Just. A lot to take.”

Leaning his mouth on his clasped hands, Stiles barely holds himself back from biting on his fingers, a familiar tension knotting all over his back and tying up his insides. The weight of his dad’s gaze only adds to Stiles’ frying nerves, but his voice is gentle when he speaks up:

“I know you, son. There’s more there, isn’t it?”

For whatever reason, Stiles’ sight blurs again, eyes stinging and itchy. He tries to blink it away, take a calming breath, but it wavers anyway.

“He– He called me his mate…” The words trail off on a whisper, hoarse and lower than usual as he still struggles to process the grandiosity of the word. His dad, though, clearly doesn’t get it.

“And that’s…”

It does succeed at making Stiles smile a bit, even if it quivers. Trust that the sheriff won’t know about the supernatural customs.

“It’s like an equivalent of, _uhh_ , basically a soulmate for a supernatural. Y’know, wolves mate for life…” It’s one of the few things he remembers talking about with Derek, back when he still was an alpha himself, when he– when he had his own pack and was teaching them about being a werewolf. And Stiles’ next words come easily. “When a werewolf finds its mate, then they’ll probably bond for life. They’re supposed to be their potentially perfect partner. I– I don’t think it’s like fate or something, they choose who they want to mate with, and I don’t know if it works like that for all supernatural, but… most of them, I guess.”

Noah listens with an expression that’s hard to decipher, seems to be a mix of shock, worry and… longing? Stiles’ heart speeds up – the thud of it on his ribs almost a physical sensation as he remembers seeing his parents together and thinking– thinking they’d been made for each other. Their love seemed one of a kind, so deep and true it wouldn’t ever diminish. Because his dad still loved his mom, that Stiles was sure of, even after all these years.

“Do you want that?” he asks softly, far gentler than Stiles expected. None of the anger he suspected would be the first reaction.

“I–” his voice hitches and he needs to blink rapidly again “–I don’t know.”

And that’s a lie. They both know it. And they both know what’s the true answer.

“Well…” His dad raises his brows, sighs and makes a face. “I’ll admit, that’s a lot to take in.”

The words as much as his dad’s expression succeed at breaking a snort out of Stiles, even if a short and nerves-ridden one. But it breaks the tension a little and his dad doesn’t seem immediately disapproving so maybe not everything is lost. And maybe Stiles thought too quickly, because the next moment he’s serious again, his gaze heavy and considering.

“You think… I could talk with him?”

Stiles’ first thought is _that’s not a very good idea_ , but then – when he actually _thinks_ about it – maybe it’s not that bad. Void has a way with words, so maybe–

“Yeah, I’ll get him.” He moves to stand up, but stops short, eyeing his dad with his heart up his throat. “If… you are sure?”

“I am. It’s not like he’s on a rampage again, right? So–” His dad makes a vague gesture with his hands, like he doesn’t know what more to say or just wants Stiles to get on with it, and Stiles–

He gets it, though probably not in its entirety. Those events from before – they already became blurry in his mind, overshadowed with the months spent together, with Void’s presence becoming a soothing constant in his life, one he can’t imagine going further without. But it’s not what his dad knows – he must be remembering what happened back then, how he was faced with Void still in Stiles’ skin, imitating Stiles to perfection and easily overpowering all of them without so much as a flinch. And even if his dad is keeping as neutral of an expression as he can right now, it’s easy to see the tension in his shoulders and the lines around his grey eyes. He’s obviously worried, determined to protect Stiles if what he sees doesn’t quite meet the picture Stiles has painted. The prospect of that is terrifying, then again – Stiles hasn’t expected it would all go down so relatively smoothly, so…

Now he can only hope Void won’t try to sabotage it just for fun. Or other reasons he _won’t_ entertain now – if the demon is still with him, then it _must_ mean something, right?

“Okay, okay, I’ll-” Nodding rapidly, Stiles drags himself up and out of the chair, chewing on his lips as he gives his dad one last long. “I’ll go get him.”

He scrapes his nails down the side of his neck a little bit too forcefully not to get a bit painful, but the fresh spark of hurt and exhilaration gives him enough of a kick to walk out – and although he could just reach out through the connection to talk to Void that way and the demon would appear right in the room as he can do easily now, Stiles just– He just–

 _Well_ , already out in the corridor, Stiles tugs on the bond, sending his unspoken request, and that little shivery feeling shudders in anticipation, eager and impatient. Ducking around the corner, Stiles leans on the wall and exhales a long breath, but it does nothing to calm him down. Void doesn’t respond through their bond, but the corridor clears out barely a few seconds later, just a bit too quickly to seem normal, and before Stiles can wonder, the shadows condense, writhing and shaping in place – then barely a blink later Void materializes just before his eyes. A small, knowing smile on his pale lips.

Stiles can’t exactly help himself as his gaze slips over the demon, dressed simply in all-black, the novelty of this being real and tangible still so fresh it sends little sparks all over his skin.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Void purrs, the sound low enough it should, by all means, disappear in the hospital’s bustle, yet still slips down Stines’ spine, waking that familiar warmth in his chest. It’s almost impossible to keep himself in place. Instead, it’s the demon crossing the distance between them, arching one brow up. “I suppose everything went well?”

“Uh, as well as it could.” Stiles drags his tongue over his chapped lower lip and tries not to notice how Void readily follows, something far too heated and hungry in his gaze to feel safe. Gathering his scrambling thoughts has never been harder, but the weight of his next words does sober him up a bit. “Dad wants to talk with you.” Just a bit.

“Does he now...” Void muses, not sounding surprised at all – it’s like he fully expected it, but also it’s clearly not the thing on his mind. Not when he’s looking at Stiles _like that_.

Slowly, taking all the time and joy in the world, the demon’s dark eyes trace the lines of Stiles’ face, a simmering heat in them that makes Stiles want to hide or throw himself right into it, catching him in a trap of his own indecision – a prey tense and ready to bolt, yet completely immobile under the predator’s eyes. But maybe that’s just the post-feeding haze, Stiles thinks, almost shuddering at the memory of the pleasure that can come with the pain – then Void closes the space between them and leans in.

Hands wrap around Stiles’ waist and hip, his own curling in the black shirt, and hot breath scorches his sensitive skin as Void’s nose brushes along his jaw. And Stiles is baring his neck before he can think better about it, curving into the solid line of the body against him. The small, pleased noise Void releases in response almost makes Stiles’ knees buckle – then the demon nuzzles into his throat and Stiles quite possibly melts. Loose-limbed and completely pliant under Void’s precise touch, every and all tension seeping away as if it was never there to begin with.

“This is nice,” Stiles blurts out, face burning immediately because _of course_ his brain short-circuited and decided to ruin the moment. But Void only chuckles lightly, nuzzling one last time against Stiles’ jaw before he leans back up to meet his eyes.

And Stiles can barely look at Void, with his panting breath and face flushed bright red. He’d gladly fall under the earth with how his heart races – if not for the fond expression on the demon’s face. That’s one Stile can’t quite comprehend, far less get enough of.

“You know you’re free to scent me back, don’t you?” Void raises a single brow, his voice amused and still that lovely purr that’s absolutely not helping Stiles’ situation.

“Huh? Yeah, sure, of course I _know_ , I’m not stupid.”

Stiles squirms, just a little, but despite his words, he can’t exactly gather the courage to do that – just as much as he can’t find it in himself to release the hold he has on Void’s shirt and jacket. The shirt is soft between his fingers, thin enough he’d probably feel the skin underneath if he only spread his palm out, and the jacket is dark denim of a quality Stiles probably never touched before. Which maybe he’d wonder about if he wasn’t so caught up in the middle of all of these new sensations – the hands on his hips, the body all but pressed to him, the breath on his chin and those eyes watching him in fond amusement. It’s gearing to be too much, too overwhelming in its novelty, yet Stiles can’t, _doesn’t want to_ break it.

Void hums, his eyes hooded and thumbs tracing over Stiles’ hip bones almost absently – it’s definitely a calculated move, though.

“Do you want to listen in?” he asks, seemingly out of nowhere, and _that_ succeeds at snapping Stiles’ back to reality, at least partially.

“What?”

“To our talk, little fox,” Void explains easily enough, mischief sparking in black eyes. “I could… let you in, let’s say, so you’d see and hear everything. What do you say?”

Stiles’ mind spins, shocked at the very possibility. His first instinct is to decline, but then… Stiles was always too curious for his own good and so much depends on how this talk will turn out and he– he kinda wants to know how Void’s going to act, what will he say, how honest will he be. It’s an opportunity he can’t pass, even if it’ll definitely make him feel guilty – that he can live with, though, it’s nothing new. So he nods.

“Yeah, okay. I want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! Almost a month later, huh? Sorry for the wait, guys, those of you who follow me on tumblr probably already know, but I was completely swamped with my uni finals and I wasn't able to even look at my fics for almost three weeks straight ;_; I'm slowly getting it all done and over with tho, so here I am! I know this one is shorter than the last chapters, but I got this part done today and wanted to finally post something - and I feel like it works this way ^^ The next one shouldn't take me longer than a few days to edit, a week at most, pinky promise!
> 
> So, what do you think about this one? I must say, I've been sorely tempted to get that scene at the beginning a lil' bit further ;> And Sheriff's awake! Got you some Stilinski feels, huh? Got any predictions for the next chapter? ^^
> 
> Hope this new year is treating y'all well! As always, you can find me over on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - and I'll see you soon with the next update! All the love ❤ Also, 600 kudos??? Ahhhh, y'all are the best and ily ❤ (Can we get to 666 👀 Lmaooo)


	21. a matter of perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A promised, quick update! Technically a part 2 to the previous chapter and a little bit longer too. Lots of dialogue and lots of info here. Hope y'all will enjoy ❤

“...so what, am I supposed to just accept it?”

Some of the conversation is obviously lost on Stiles. when he finally finds a quiet corner and slips through the connection into Void’s side, but the way his dad looks, with that still defiant spark in his eyes despite what he must already suspect, is enough to gather what topic they’re on. And Void only confirms it.

“You don’t have to accept me,” he says, perfectly composed and calm, “but maybe you should consider accepting that it’s Stiles’ decision.”

“And if it’s a bad decision?”

“Is it?”

The words are challenging and Stiles can’t exactly see Void, not with how he’s seeing through his eyes now, but he can imagine how he looks. Brow raised, black eyes heavy and sharp, and yet his body completely relaxed. It’s not supposed to raise his dad's hackles – which it does anyway – but make him _think_ , make him question and doubt – which it also succeeds at doing. The way Void knows how to get people where he wants them is quite possibly terrifying.

“Tell me, Sheriff, can you, with perfectly clear conscience, say you know what’s good for your son? Would you make that decision for him? Would you take away his choice?”

“Of course I wouldn’t!”

Void stays still and unmoving in the face of Noah’s outburst, but Stiles can _feel_ how the demon is suppressing a smile. He doesn’t exactly appreciate manipulating his dad like that – though, how much of a manipulation it is, he’s probably too biased to truly tell – but he also knows the sheriff is stubborn, it’s in Stilinski’s very blood, so if someone doesn’t steer them right, they’ll easily close themselves in their own heads. And his dad is caught in the middle – still partly stuck in his ways, while trying to be open despite what his experiences tell him. It’s eerie, almost, how he can see his dad going through the exact same process Stiles is still not out of yet. Looking for ways to stop what will inevitably happen.

Noah visibly tries to calm himself down and breaths out a long exhale before focusing on the demon again – grey eyes stormy and hard.

“You’ve killed people.”

“I did.”

“My deputies. Innocents.”

Void cocks his head to the side and blinks lazily.

“Depends on how you define innocence.”

His dad’s jaw clenches tightly, but he doesn’t take the bait. Stiles is a little bit proud.

“How am I supposed to look past that?”

And the fact his dad is even asking– It squeezes the very air out of Stiles’ chest, something heavy settling in and making it a little hard to breathe.

Void doesn’t answer immediately, which seems to put his dad on edge, but Stiles _knows_ what it means – Void’s carefully choosing his words, always looking into the future to think through his next step.

“I’ve been trapped for a long time, you know. For granting a favor, nonetheless. Your human mind can’t exactly comprehend what it means to someone like me–”

“That doesn’t excuse anything,” his dad butts in, but Void _actually_ rolls his eyes this time.

“Please, Sheriff, I don’t need any excuses.” Then his voice lowers, takes on a harsher edge that would surely make Stiles shudder, and his eyes narrow. “Unlike some, I own up to what I am.”

Noah presses his lips together, clearly displeased with what he heard.

“Own up to hurting others?”

A small trickle of irritation goes through the bond and even though Void’s quick to cover it up, Stiles can’t help but get nervous again. As much as he… trusts Void to keep his words and not harm those Stiles cares about, his frustration isn’t a good sign. But Stiles should also know better than think it’d stop him – or that he’d even show it.

“You wanted to hear the truth and yet you seem not to listen. Shall I continue or should I leave?” the demon asks instead, brow raised.

It makes his dad’s expression even harder, furrowed and tense, but he nods nonetheless.

“So what are you saying?” he asks, straight to the point, and Stiles can’t exactly help the way his heart skips a beat. He’s looking through Void’s eyes, but the demon’s mind is mostly hidden from him – he wouldn’t try to look, anyway, but he does want to hear it.

“What I’m saying is – you’re trying to measure the supernatural world with your human eyes. And clearly, it’s not working, is it?”

The words hang heavy in the following silence, hitting the nail on the head. Because that’s something Stiles’ dad was struggling with, is still struggling with, and Stiles knows it perfectly well, has seen it with his own eyes – which, of course, makes Void perfectly aware of it too.

He doesn’t answer, but Stiles can see that something unravels inside his dad, breaks or just releases, and the demon continues on. Steps closer, fingers running over the metal rail of the bed in a very distinct gesture, so unmistakably his own.

“You could say everyone has a place, a role, so to speak, in the world. No matter if chosen or given.” He says, an unhurried, musing tone that draws everyone near into what he’s saying, the sheriff being no exception. “Your role, of course, is to protect your people. I understand that, so by all means, protect them. But–” Void looks up, an expression in his eyes that must be chilling by the way his dad stiffens. “–maybe you should leave supernaturals to deal with their own.”

A tense moment of silence follows as his dad mulls over the words, then straightens in his place, seemingly reaching a decision. Stiles dreads what it is, yet Void stays perfectly composed, like it’s all falling into place.

“Maybe I could,” he admits, “but our worlds aren’t separate, when someone humans know dies it’s my business also. And I can’t just leave that alone.”

Stiles’ heart comes up right into his throat, beating frantically, it’s starting to look–

Void hums and a trickle of calm, of reassurance and phantom caress goes down the bond with a quiet _Relax, darling, it’s going better than you think_ , before he speaks.

“That’s true, but it’s easier to deal with than you make it out to be, Sheriff. Isn’t your deputy a part of the supernatural too?” A ghost of a smile quirks in the corner of Void’s lips. “There's nothing stopping you from working with them so the situation is contained on both ends, is there?” A shadow passes over his dad’s face, quick and barely there, but Void catches it, of course, and latches on. “ _Ahh,_ but there is–” his finger taps a few quick beats on the metal, ringing out in the silence “–your own stiff conscience.”

The sheriff scoffs, brows furrowing in a hard look.

“And what would you know about that? You don’t have one.” He exhales a long breath, watching Void being undisturbed still, and visibly tries to calm down. “I bet you don’t even regret anything.” He shakes his head, like he already dealt and somewhat accepted that, but Void doesn’t seem to want to leave it like that.

“It may surprise you, but I do. Not much, I’ll admit, but there are some… decisions I came to regret now.” His tone is slower, voice a bit rougher, and Stiles can _feel_ what he means, doesn’t even have to see it in his mind, it’s imprinted in his very soul. It’s an almost… tender moment. But it passes quickly and Void’s back to business before Noah can ask about it, straightening his back with a thoughtful expression. “Think about what I said, you don’t have to pretend the supernatural doesn’t exist. Quite the opposite, actually. Let them deal their own justice, work with them so that your people are safe and protected from a world they don’t understand. That’s going to be better for everyone.”

“And what with you?”

There’s suspicion in his dad’s gray eyes and Stiles can’t blame him. It’s a loaded question, yet Void seems fully prepared.

“Well, I am what I am and I need what I need. But–” he pauses, probably more for effect than anything else, aware of how his speech works on people, then “–I’ll make it easier on you.”

“How?” Noah narrows his eyes, almost visibly backing up with the way he straightens his shoulders. It doesn’t escape Void nor Stiles and his nerves fire up again – he could ask the same.

“I have… a proposition.” Void trails his fingers over the metal again, an idle gesture as he seemingly chooses his words. “Beacon Hills isn’t as small as it seems, there’s always a bad apple somewhere, especially considering it in a… broader meaning. You won’t find all of them, so–” A barely-there smile curves Void’s lips “–let me help you out. I’ll deal with them, get what I need and then drop them on your doorstep. Relatively… unharmed, let’s say. That way you get to deal justice, fill your quota or whatever it is you do – and both sides are happy. I’d say it’s a win-win situation, wouldn’t you?”

The way he makes it sound seems almost unreal, an opportunity too good to pass up, but it’s also believable enough that the sheriff wouldn’t shoot it down immediately. No, Stiles sees his dad consider and _hopes –_ because that’s probably the best they’re going to get from Void. And the way they’re merged right now, how the demon lets him peek into his own mind, Stiles knows it’s an honest offer. Being a Nogitsune makes Void crave what he needs, but he’s not opposed to changing his ways, no, it’s almost like… like it’s a fun challenge, a way not to get bored – basically entertainment. And although it should probably make Stiles sick at the mere thought, it’s actually washed in relief – even when he’s more than aware Void never said he won’t go looking somewhere else to get his fill.

His dad gives Void a long calculating look, but the way Void’s absolutely calm and collected indicates he’s not expecting a surprise. And well enough, few seconds later Noah comes to the same conclusion as Stiles.

“Alright,” he agrees, nodding shortly, a surprising glint in grey eyes– “It’s a deal.”

And if he wasn’t more proud than anything, Stiles would laugh at the spark of irritation the words cause in Void. It’s even funnier when he thinks they didn’t expect it, but – well, maybe Void expected it but thought his dad wouldn’t catch on. Because these words – they’re far more binding than a simple agreement. And of course his dad _would_ know, he’s a cop – observing, gathering and connecting facts is basically his job.

_Yeah, okay, that’s definitely going better than I thought._

_Touché._

The irritation disappears as quickly as it sparked and his dad might suspect, but Void doesn’t let it show – if Stiles didn’t know, he couldn’t ever be sure. Instead, the demon inclines his head, just the slightest bit.

“Very well,” he says, before leaning back and cocking his head to the side. “Shall I get Stiles back or…”

It’s an opening Stiles wasn’t expecting Void to give, but one his dad seemed to want because he’s immediately ready.

“Just one more thing.”

And his voice dips, just that bit harder. Stiles boggles at what could it possibly be and even Void is mildly curious as he raises a single brow.

“And that is?”

There’s a second of hesitance as his dad keeps Void’s gaze, as if a sudden doubt held him back, but it passes quickly and he braces himself like he’s expecting a fallout, which – what? Why would–

„How do I know you’re not going to force him?”

And everything stops.

The connection goes deathly quiet – so silent, so hollow, that for the quickest of moments Stiles panics, thinking it somehow _gone_ , before he realizes it’s– it’s Void. The quiet, deadly fury of an offended fox, like being plunged into the dark depths of the ocean, like that– that time in the clearing, looking into black eyes and rigidly still body in the split second it takes to break.

„ _What–”_

And the demon’s voice is like a blade, barely above a whisper and yet _cutting_. Stiles can’t even see him, but the memory is more than enough and the frozen over bond makes him tremble just as his dad tries to steel himself, the look in his eyes making it clear he knows what he caused but he’ll see it through. It’s almost a certainty that the shadows behind Void must have made the room seem so dim-lit.

“Stiles told me you… see him as his mate.” His dad’s face draws in, every line and worry even more visible, the crease between his brows a deep gash. “And I kinda feel like you won’t take a no for an answer, so – how do I know you won’t force him?”

It’s easy to see where he comes from, and Stiles is almost touched, but it also shows all the more clearly that his dad still understands so little of the supernatural world – though, maybe it is just how any father would act in such a situation. But the way Void feels like a tsunami barely held by a mere glass makes Stiles rigid with worry – and yet even when he wants to say something, to elevate the tension and to appease his demon, _it just won’t come._ Because as much as he won’t believe it possible, _refuses_ to believe it, even the simple thought freezes his blood over.

Then – impossibly, amazingly, completely and utterly unbelievably – Void breaths out a long exhale and _relaxes_. Not completely, no, but the fury dulls to frustrated anger – and even that is pushed back as Void runs his fingers over the metal railing in a quick-paced rhythm, seemingly more of a distraction than just an idle move.

“You know, Sheriff, in any other case I’d make someone pay, _severely_ , for even implying what you just did.” His voice is low and musing, yet feels laced with a threat more potent for how quietly it comes out – chilling all the same even if Stiles believes Void wouldn’t hurt his dad, not now. But it’s not the point the demon is going for. “Then again, a supernatural in most cases would know better. So I’ll let it slide, because you are human and don’t understand what you are saying.”

Noah’s brows creases even more and for a moment it seems like _he’ll_ get offended, but then he seems to reconsider.

“Well, enlighten me then. What am I missing?”

It’s only slightly tinged with sarcasm, but it doesn’t escape anyone. Still, at least he wants to listen, and for that Stiles can be grateful – it doesn’t change how his heart pounds so hard it feels like it’ll break out of his chest, but the spark of curiosity that arises at the topic does distract him a bit.

Void rasps his pointer finger over the metal, tap-tap-tap, then curls his hand around the railing, head slightly cocked to the side.

“Mating is not like human marriage, Sheriff. It _is_ a bond – a connection, if you will, a binding in body, mind and spirit. It can’t be forged, it can’t be falsified, it _can’t_ be forced upon unwilling.”

His voice is hard and low and weighted with meaning as the words ring true and honest, trailing down their connection and saturating it with their potency. Void’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks at Stiles’ dad – already mulling it over and deciding if he even should believe it – and chooses what to say next. There seems to be so much hidden there, so many things he won’t disclose now – not now, not in this way – but it pulses sincere in the bond and _good god_ , Stiles wants to hear it.

 _Later, little fox_ , he promises, the warmest of whispers, _anything you want, I’ll tell you_.

Stiles’ breath catches, lodging his throat solid.

_Thank you._

Out loud Void continues, steady and unwavering.

“I know you’ve seen a wolf refusing to join a pack before,” he says simply, watching his dad’s grudgingly growing realization. “And for a pack bond to form, it must be accepted – just like every bond there is – otherwise it’s not true, not a connection as it should be. It _won’t_ form if it’s not wanted… It must be chosen.”

His voice softens at the end, a distant kind of quality to it as if Void’s mind wandered somewhere Stiles can’t exactly see–

But he gets it, all at once, the same second his dad’s eyes spark with reluctant understanding - because that’s just it, isn’t it? It all goes back to a choice, as simple as that. And Stiles can’t _not_ remember the moment he _did_ make a choice, so long ago now, the first one that might have just determined everything that’s happening and might yet happen. The urge to rub at his rune is undeniable, an instinct by now, and even though he’s basically in Void’s head-space, he can feel his body responding, fingers rasping over the inky black sigil, his shadow’s imprint on his skin just as much as on his very soul. It feels both so, so mundane and so groundbreaking – those few words.

His dad takes a long breath, face smoothing out in a kind of acceptance that Stiles can’t quite believe in.

“And if he doesn’t make the choice you want?”

“That’s his right, I respect that.” Void replays easily, like it doesn’t bother him in the slightest, but–

“People change, though, don’t they? And, contrary to what you might expect...” –there’s a smile curving his lips, a trickle of warmth over the bond and– “ _I’m patient._ ”

The words don’t quite register at first – then a phantom memory comes crawling back all over Stiles’ brain, frying at his nerves with little licks of fire. Familiar heat sparks and spreads down his body, raising gooseflesh all over his skin, a prickling, electric current, but the worst part is – it feels _so fucking good_. He’s pretty sure his face just flushed blood-red and desperately hopes no one’s around to see as he is trying to banish the thought that already rooted itself to the very forefront of his mind. Void might have chosen his words just because or he knew _exactly_ what it would bring up, but how would he–

Stiles’ breath wavers and he almost gets himself thrown back to his own body when he remembers what’s happening – that Void’s talking with his dad and Stiles should be paying attention not letting his brain go places it _shouldn’t._ Pushing away all those sweet, tempting sensations proves a challenge Stiles is dreading to fulfill, but that memory brings back other emotions and fears with it that stutter in his heartbeat. And as much as Stiles is aware there’s no escaping those anymore, what he’s listening to is just as – if not more – important to that future he’s been hoping for. So he forces himself back into focus and when Stiles tunes back in, his dad’s already looking somewhat resigned. Not happy and absolutely not satisfied, a tension to his shoulders that means nothing less than the fact he’s not really giving up on keeping his guard up, but puts the fight away – for now.

And Noah sighs, that bone-deep sigh that’s more telling than any words, before he very slowly shakes his head.

“I guess there’s nothing I can do about that,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything else, a grimace on his lips that gets tiredly wiped off when Noah’s hands drag down his face. Then he’s looking back up at Void, still as composed and stoic as ever, with only the tense lines around his grey eyes betraying his inner turmoil. “Just–”

The hesitance is so unlike his dad – not in itself, but shown in front of someone Stiles can tell his dad still sees very much as a threat, even if not an active one – but he seems to be battling something within himself, torn in a way that’s far more familiar. And when he finally speaks up again, it’s so clear – and the sight of his dad’s expression just about strikes a spear right through Stiles’ chest.

“–Stiles told me his magic is dangerous. Destructive. That it– that it could be too much for him… Is it true?”

Void stills, not uncharacteristically, but the slight tension on his side of the bond sends little shivers all over Stiles’ skin. The feeling is smoothed out quickly, followed by a cool wave of reassurance that makes him shudder weakly – it’s a bit weird, in a way, that Stiles can still feel his body while essentially being in Void’s head. But that’s maybe because he’s _just_ looking through, not really in the demons’ mind – and at least that means he can still chew on his lips anxiously while watching the scene unfold.

“It is,” Void answers finally, tipping his chin down the tiniest bit, as if in acknowledgment. “Sparks’ power is much more than that, though – its potential is limitless.”

“And that’s what you care for, huh? That power?” His dad half-gruffs, half-bites the question out, yet even to Stiles it’s quite clear that the tension doesn’t come from the words. No, even if it could be a valid concern, now…

Void almost smiles, thoroughly amused – _quite an ironic statement, isn’t it?_ – and curves a single brow at the sheriff.

“Do I truly seem like I even need it?”

His humor bleeds through, yet there's something almost chilling under it – something that makes Noah stiffen and should probably scare Stiles, but does the exact opposite. It’s a bit shiver-inducing, the knowledge of how much of a threat the demon can be even when using barely anything of his power and on the verge of starving – and now, still very much hungry and far from sated, Stiles is sure Void would be able to play them all without much trouble.

 _Love the thrill, don’t you_ , _darling?_

Void’s low, growl-like murmur seeps like honey through their connection, rasping along his senses, and Stiles, yet again, hopes that no one’s around his body to witness the fierce way he must be blushing right now. But he has no time to even try and formulate a quip, because Void’s already focusing back on _what’s important_ , effortlessly continuing his thought.

“Besides, if I wanted more power, I’d be better off getting it anywhere else – maybe even stealing some tails could be fun. If… someone still _had_ them, that is.” _Tap-tap-tap_ , his voice is musing and stays perfectly even, _too_ even, on those last words, and this time Stiles gets as chilled as his dad. Still, Void moves swiftly past that – not allowing questions, but letting the undertone linger in the background – and getting back to the topic is sure to capture the sheriff’s attention again. “More than that, though, Spark’s power is not easy to absorb – not in a large quantity, at least – and... it doesn’t exactly play nice with what it doesn’t accept first.” His lips do quirk up into a slight smirk then. “Quite fitting, isn’t it?”

Stiles huffs – thankfully only in his mind – as he easily notices the slight jab and sends his own sharp tug through the bond. It doesn’t – in any way, shape or form – phase the demon, but Stiles gets a firm pull at the connection back and shudders in the little delight it gives him.

His dad, though, is not impressed. And the heavy, grim look in his eyes sobers Stiles right away – just as his next words:

“It could kill him.”

“But it won’t.”

Void keeps his dad’s gaze, calm and steady, all traces of humor long gone. It’s kinda weird, too, looking through Void’s eyes, but at the same time Stiles’ heart races as he hears the steady conviction, the absolute certainty in the demon’s words, washing the bond in their sincerity and making his chest feel so much tighter. After so many months of working through his magic, building bonds and figuring out its quirks Stiles knows the words are true. His emotional storm aside, he’s never been as grounded and confident in wielding his power as he is now – not _just_ in his magic, too, but just… in himself. And he wouldn’t achieve it alone.

The moment doesn’t last longer than just a few seconds, after which his dad seems to reach some kind of decision, new determination shining in sharp, grey eyes.

“You’re going to protect him.”

It’s not a question – it’s not even a statement. It’s an order.

Leave it to his dad to try and turn what he perceives as possibly the biggest threat there is to Stiles’ personal bodyguard.

And Void hears it just as well, a light amusement coloring his mind and seeping through, warm and pleasant – it almost feels... fond.

“I assure you, Sheriff, Stiles doesn’t need protection. But – yes, that is my intention.”

“Good.” His dad nods, sharp and decisive, before he straightens his back in the clear going-to-shovel-talk-one-last-time sign. Which, sure enough– “And if you hurt him, I swear to god I’ll find a way to send you back to hell. Or whatever other place you crawled out of.”

“Of course,” Void’s lips curve in the corners, even more amused than before and words filled with humor that’s only _slightly_ mocking. “I expect nothing less.”

His dad’s face stays tiredly unimpressed, but at this point, Stiles can only sigh and slump back as all the tension seeps out of him with an almost tangible weight lifted off his shoulders.

Relief.

That’s how Stiles could only describe it. An overwhelming wave that steals his breath and stings under his eyelids and, quite honestly, feels like a small slice of peace, a promise for a future that, _finally_ , doesn’t look morbid and helpless but instead – hopeful. It’s almost a gut punch, the mere possibility it may _work out_ , for once.

His heart races, filled with elation and hope and… warmth, just warmth – nothing heavy weighing him down anymore as Stiles allows it all to soak in, to settle, to seem alright for what feels like the first time in forever. It’s a good thing it looks like his dad has no more questions and Void will wrap up their talk, because just then something jolts Stiles from the outside and he’s ripped back to his own body, flailing about wildly.

“Hey, hey! Stiles, easy–”

He blinks, looking up to green eyes and cut jaw and–

 _Oh_ , it’s Parrish. Brows furrowed, concerned gaze and one arm on Stiles’ shoulder. _Right_. For all intents and purposes, Stiles probably looked either completely spaced out or asleep– Probably asleep.

So he gathers himself up as quickly as he’s able to, straightening in the chair and wiping away the last traces of bleariness the sudden transition back into his body caused.

“Uh, hi– hey, what’s up?”

The frown stays firmly put as Jordan leans back, though now it looks to have a totally different source – especially as he sighs heavily in the next moment. And he’s already in his gear.

“I’m afraid it’s nothing good.” He gives Stiles a once over, that persistent frown turning a little puzzled. “I thought you’d be with your dad. I was just going to him.”

It’s enough to make Stiles immediately alert.

“What? Why? What’s happening?”

Jordan pointedly looks around – as if checking if anyone’s listening in, but also deciding on something–

“We should probably go to the Sheriff – if he’s awake. It’s… I think you should all take a look at it.”

The protest is on the tip of Stiles’ tongue – his dad is in no shape for anything right now, won’t be for a long time if Stiles has anything to say in that regard, _but_ keeping him in the dark may only make it worse. Just like Stiles, his dad would find a way to get involved, so maybe it’d be safer for him to know everything – and with that easier to talk him down into first taking care of himself.

A gentle, cool thrill comes through the connection, a silent inquiry. _Right_ , Void must still be in the room.

 _Could you stay there a moment longer?_ he sends along, chewing on his lips as he stands up and nods to Parrish. _We’ll be there in a second._

_Of course, darling._

Void’s answer is as warm as it’s low, spreading that sweet heat all over Stiles’ chest and, right now, thankfully more comforting than anything else. With what seems to be not-so-great news again, Stiles might need all the strength he can get.

“Come on,” he says out loud to Jordan, “I was about to go back anyway.”

And turns back to where he came from just barely minutes ago, rounding the corner as the deputy follows him. With the way the back of his neck and shoulders prickle in awareness, Stiles doesn’t even have to see it to know how Parrish’s half-confused frown must look like.

“So... why were you outside?”

They reach the room in no time and Stiles stops just shy of entering because for some reason it feels like he should warn Jordan.

“Dad. He… wanted to talk with Void.”

And Stiles glances back at the deputy at the perfect moment to catch Jordan’s eyebrows raising up in that slightly incredulous expression he already became familiar with, the one people usually get when they couldn’t quite believe him. It makes his cheeks flush with the barest hint of a blush, but before Jordan can start asking questions, he takes the last step and pushes the door open.

Void’s still in the same place as when Stiles was looking through his eyes, standing at the foot of the bed, but now he’s leaning on it with his hip, a cool smirk on his lips and facing the door – so it should not be weird that Stiles’ gaze gets drawn to him immediately, right? To the graceful arc of his body and the shimmering gleam in dark eyes as the demon watches him with a knowing look. And Stiles is torn, all at once, about what he should do. Because on one hand, there’s nothing he wants to do more than go to Void – that warm, fluttery feeling in his chest only pushing him in the demon’s direction – but at the same time, it feels like he would be betraying his dad somehow. Stiles _should_ by all means go back to the armchair beside the bed. Instead, he gets glued to the floor just two steps into the room, Jordan stopping just at his side, but – consciously or not – also somewhat between him and Void. Not _really_ , because it seems more like Jordan wants to have them all in his sight than anything else, but still – Stiles would need to go past the deputy to reach Void.

He gives the demon an unsure look, not even understanding what exactly he’s looking for, but Void seems to get it – his smirk softens, just that bit to be noticeable, and he dips his chin in a barely-there motion. Somehow, that’s the only thing Stiles needs to unfreeze himself and reluctantly step up to his abandoned chair. He sits down just as his dad frowns at Parrish.

“Jordan,” Noah nods, but his voice carries a tinge of worry. “Why are you here? I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Stiles blinks, looking in confusion between both of them before he remembers – Jordan was just here with Lydia, though probably not the whole night. Did he even sleep between shifts? There are no bruises under his eyes, but Jordan’s face rarely bore signs of weariness besides the slightest tension – and even that’s hard to notice if someone doesn’t know where to look.

“I wasn’t planning to and I hate to bring it up now, but–” the deputy sighs, hands at his hips and shoulders rising with the motion. “–I feel like you all should hear about it.”

His dad straightens, just slightly, but it’s enough to let them know he’s fully alert now.

“Alright, go on.”

Stiles grimaces a little on the inside but carefully keeps it off his face. It wouldn’t achieve anything besides aggravating his dad and as much as he doesn't like the whole thing, Jordan is probably right. But even with his dad’s prompt, Jordan hesitates, glancing quickly between Stiles and Void – still as calm and nonchalant as ever, that smug air around him not changing even for a second – before stopping on Stiles, as if searching for something. It’s easy enough to guess and not exactly subtle, judging by Void’s growing amusement, but Stiles tries to stay collected anyway. And when he gives the slightest nod possible, it’s apparently enough for Jordan.

The acknowledgment feels weird – the way they just take Stiles’ word, his approval as enough of a reassurance that it’s the right choice. That they _trust_ him like that. But it also makes his chest flutter and tighten and quite a bit breathless.

 _It’s what you deserve, little fox_ , the demon murmurs, a sweetly low and warm caress that’s just as plainly obvious in his dark gaze.

Thankfully, Jordan starts talking, and what he says is enough to tear Stiles away from the well of temptation that is the demon. Instead, when he hears Jordan's words, his heart thunders for a very different reason.

“There was an attack…”

Stiles’ mind spins as he listens, realizing how ignorant to the world outside his own bubble he’s been these past few days. It sounded bad, really bad. Someone died, Hayden’s sister barely escaped and some kind of a new monster – that they had _no idea_ what it was and where it came from – had been going wild around the town, yet– When Stiles looks up to Void, the demon seems mildly intrigued. He’d frown at that, but at the same moment Jordan takes out his phone.

“We caught a glimpse of that thing.” He says, fiddling with the device. “It’s not much, but…”

Shaking his head, Jordan steps closer and gives Stiles the phone so he can easily play it for both himself and his dad. Almost immediately Void materializes at his side, perched on the armchair with his thigh pressed to Stiles’ side just like the previous night, and leans closer in clear curiosity. Both Parrish and his dad give the demon a look, but Stiles ignores it and taps on the pause sign.

The video is already in light slow-motion as it starts playing. For a second nothing happens, then a sort of… shadow passes through the feed, fast and only for a couple of frames, almost filling up the screen. Dread pulls heavy in Stiles’ stomach as he rewinds the part immediately, pausing the video on a frame where the _thing_ is best visible. It’s not much, looking more like a black indescribable blob than anything else, but there’s something they can easily make out – a pair of glowing, white-blue eyes, streaks of light across the feed.

Void hums lowly in his throat, practically right beside Stiles’ ear – he can already imagine the phantom sensation of how that rumbling sound would feel like against his back. His heart skips and stutters for several different reasons before he understands the impression running down the bond – and all but whips around to look at the demon.

“You know what it is?”

Stiles’ sudden outburst shocks both his dad and Parrish, understandably so, but Void’s eyes stay on the image, head slightly tilted.

“Possibly.” He leans closer and reaches to tap on the phone still in Stiles’ hands, replays the video, then replays it _again_ , slower, before stopping it on the same frame with narrowed eyes. Another small hum leaves the demon’s throat, seemingly aimed more at lengthening the suspense than anything else, then he leans back. Stiles would be irritated if he wasn’t so wound up and trying to urge the demon through the bond into just _answering_ and, finally, Void speaks up. “It looks like the beast I followed some centuries ago. In France, I believe.”

“Centuries…” his dad mutters under his breath, just as Jordan looks at both of them with that incredulous expression, raised brows and “A beast?” on his lips.

Stiles ignores them both, eyes glued to Void’s perfectly even face and his own heart racing. The demon’s not lying, he can feel it through the bond, but how...

Looking down to the paused video, Stiles racks his head for the recognition he knows is there, like an itch in the back of his mind. He’s _heard_ of it, it’s right there somewhere in his head, it’s–

“La Bête.”

The name comes instantly as if it was only waiting for him to reach it. The story Alli– Allison once told them, of her family’s legend.

“Yes, that’s what some called him.”

“Him?” Parrish is faster to point out what Stiles’ mind stumbled over too.

He blinks, turning back to Void, who seems almost _bored_ already – but Stiles has the distinct feeling the demon enjoys having this kind of advantage over them, dangling his knowledge in front of their noses, deciding if he’s going to disclose it. And this time, Void indulges them, fingers lightly drumming on the backrest behind Stiles.

“It’s a werewolf.”

_What?!_

Stiles stares, mind catching and stumbling over these few simple words. He doesn’t even have to look to be aware of the twin expressions on his dad’s and Jordan’s faces, his own most probably mirroring the same shock.

“How is that even possible? This thing is bigger than a truck,” Jordan says, a touch of incredulity in his voice as his full attention is placed on Void.

Stiles’ thoughts echo with the same sentiment. Even Peter wasn’t that big in his crazy-alpha stage and although Derek’s full shift was slightly larger than most normal wolves, it still wasn’t quite as huge. Not even mentioning the fact this beast didn’t look like a typical animal but instead something very wrong and very much twisted – the blurred image alone gives Stiles a weird feeling of doom, his buzzing magic filled with apprehension.

To their collective surprise, though, Void shrugs.

“Some twisted magic, probably blood-related, if I had to guess. It was far more popular a couple centuries ago.”

“And you _don’t_ know that for sure?”

His dad raises his brows in a frown, as if put out by that – as if the reminder of Void’s age put them in a sort of certainty that the demon would have all the knowledge. Which he _has_ a lot of, far more than anyone could ever truly imagine and it still boggles Stiles’ mind on occasion. So it does take him a bit by surprise too – that seemed like a perfect situation for the demon.

“I’ve never particularly cared to uncover whatever made the beast what it was,” Void answers calmly, dark eyes fathomless and cold, an even better reminder of how truly inhuman he is than the words. “I followed it because there was a lot of pain and chaos to feed on, but–” he taps out a quick rhythm on the backrest “–it got boring quickly. Better chaos elsewhere to have.”

It seems like there’s something he’s not telling, maybe another hidden reason that he won’t bring up, but as their eyes meet, it shines in the black depth only for Stiles to see. He’ll ask later, if there’s time, but for now the information Void gave them is already plenty.

“So it’s somehow resurrected now?”

His dad's voice is full of disbelief, but that doesn’t disguise how much more of a hopeless plea than anything else it is – that what they all already suspect is not in fact true. It’s left unanswered only out loud, the awareness of what it means thickening the very air in the room. A bit unconsciously, Stiles leans back into Void, to where the demon’s thigh still rests against his waist, and the touch is somewhat grounding as he anxiously bites at his lips, worrying them between his teeth.

In the strained silence only one thing comes to mind.

“Well, it must be those Dread Doctors, right?” Jordan speaks up finally, looking between all of them as if to confirm it’s what they all have been thinking.

Behind him, Void makes a small, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, but Stiles nods, putting the vid on loop as he tries to sort through his own jumbled thoughts.

“Yeah, it’s logical, right? It’s–” He frowns, trying to catch the trail that seems to be escaping him. “They’ve been making those chimeras all this time and they all failed, right? What if–” With quite a horrifying realization Stiles sees it falling into place, the last puzzle piece fitting into the picture. “–What if this is what they’ve been trying to do?”

In the hush that falls over the room his voice rings out like a gunshot.

“Bring back the Beast.”

Clutching at the phone in his hand probably a bit too tightly, Stiles lets his voice trail off in a whisper – barely above a murmur as it was already. And he can feel Void’s eyes boring into the back of his head, a lightest of itches that raises gooseflesh all over his skin – he almost wishes for the fingers that worked down his spine the night ago to alleviate at least some of the tension lacing his muscles now. But it’s good Void doesn’t do that – both because his dad would see and it would probably only make the heavy-hot sensation in his gut worse.

Licking his lips, Stiles stops the video and finally hands the phone back to Jordan, who’s still standing just beside the bed with a concerned frown on his brow.

“You think they succeeded?” he asks, pocketing the device.

Stiles shakes his head in frustration, hands slowly dragging down his face only to cup his jaw and neck, nails digging into skin as he stares at the floor without really seeing it. From the bed, his dad speaks up.

“Were there any more accidents since then?”

“No. At least none we know of, but– Sheriff, not much time has passed, it might not mean anything.”

“But it _might…_ ”

They all look back to Stiles when the words slip out but he’s too caught up in his own thought process to notice. It feels like it’s right there, right within his grasp – his veins buzz with the familiar heat of his power, tattoos prickling all over his skin, and his hands come to his lap in an almost white-knuckled grip.

“It only got out after it was found, right? Maybe it was hiding? Maybe it’s not, like, ready yet. Why hide if it’s so powerful and deadly and all? Maybe– maybe we have some time yet.”

His grip loosens, fingers cracking as he flexes them away from his palms, and Stiles releases a quiet breath. Beside him, Void leans back, the small move pressing against Stiles in a way that can only be felt, and he may not be able to see the demon’s expression but the warm trail of pride trickling down their connection all but steals over Stiles senses.

“That’s almost certainly what it is,” Void muses, and when Stiles glances at him, there’s a slight smile in the corner of his mouth. “Resurrection is a feat hardly heard of and even if they somehow found a way to pull it off, whatever they brought back wouldn’t be at full strength for a long time. There are some things that nothing short of the most powerful magic in the world can do.”

His dark eyes hold Stiles’ unwaveringly, a meaningful look that raises the small hairs on the back of his neck. Stiles doesn’t really believe in whatever Void’s implying, _can’t_ believe in it – the thought is as much terrifying as it is thrilling – but it’s not the time to wonder about his magic and its boundaries. At least, not in this way.

“Then we need a plan,” he says instead, swallowing thickly through a scratchy throat – that intensity in Void’s gaze always seemed to rob him of the ability to speak.

Outside of his little bubble Jordan nods, easily accepting their words – again with that mind-boggling trust in Stiles’ ability to make the right decision – but then he falters immediately after, a sort of hesitance shining through.

Stiles looks up at Jordan with a frown already etching itself in-between his brows, _why would he_ -

“Scott asked me about the whole thing already, before I came here,” he explains simply, even and calm, but his gaze seems at least a bit apologetic.

And despite the flare of bitter-irritation-hurt-anger in his gut, Stiles ignores that, ignores the way that fresh, fresh gash bleeds right open, ignores it with whatever wisps of will he can gather–

“No, it’s good.” It barely comes out, the words lodged in his throat, but Stiles ignores the stares he gets and the coolness of his rune and grits his teeth past all of it. “He’s the Alpha, right? He should know, it’s his territory.” And now that he thinks about it– “Actually, _all_ the packs here should know. If this IS the Beast–”

“–then we need all the help we can get.”

His dad finishes for Stiles and when he looks back to him, it’s to be met with understanding in grey eyes and a small smile that eases something deep, deep within his chest. Even when the clear next step brings back familiar dread.

“I could talk with Scott–” Jordan offers, but Stiles is shaking his head before he can finish.

“No, I will talk to him.”

As much as it burns deep in his gut, acidic bitterness climbing up his throat, the insistent pulse of magic won’t let Stiles sit this one out– _Stiles_ won’t let himself stay out of it, and if he’s going to be in the middle, Scott will be there too. There’s just no way around it.

“You do know you don’t owe anything to that pitiful wolf, don’t you?” Void’s chilled voice slips coolly down Stiles’ spine, a drop of ice over his fried senses.

The air tenses up again all around them, quiet and rigid, and Stiles’s head turns to Void out of instinct; without looking, but fully acknowledging. He wouldn’t be able to face that cold gaze anyway, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

“I know. But– I’ll have to get it out of the way sooner or later. There’s no going back to–”

Stiles waves his hands vaguely, as if chasing off an irritating fly, but the tension in his shoulders keeps knotting more and more the longer his mind lingers on Scott. It’s not exactly easy to stop thinking about the whole thing when it’s all still so fresh. And just then the phantom, cool touch brushes down his neck, solidifying and digging into the muscles to release all the knots one by one, every push almost making Stiles shiver – it surely would if he wasn’t consciously trying to keep himself completely still. Void hums, a low rumbling sound that’s barely audible, and Stiles unconsciously leans back, inclining his head to the side as if chasing the sound.

_It’s not like I’m looking forward to it._

Even his inner voice comes out weak, tired and worn. Void’s phantom caress firms in response, enveloping Stiles’ shoulders, and the demon’s words come just as cool as before – only more dismissive this time.

_Good. That true-alpha-pup doesn’t deserve even a sliver of the attention he craves so much. It's pitiful, really._

Stiles frowns, but before he can even think Void’s words through, Jordan moves and announces he’s going back to the station. And his dad gets that familiar, warm look on his face when he sends Jordan off with a stern “Get some sleep, son,” that Stiles has heard far too many times in his life. It makes Stiles think that maybe him jokingly naming Jordan an honorary Stilinski wasn’t so far off – and it doesn’t flare that bitter feeling in his gut, quite the opposite in fact. Jordan just… fits in.

Only when he leaves does Stiles realize how very awkward the whole situation will get _very quickly_ – though, it doesn't have the chance to, because the second Stiles thinks about it, Void straightens, shifting as if to stand up.

“I suppose that’s my cue.”

Stiles would be ashamed of how quickly he whips around to the demon if he wasn’t already too caught up in the thought of Void leaving, his heart instantly thundering against his ribs.

“You’re going? Why?”

Void smiles, one corner of his pale lips curving up in that distinct, amused almost-smirk.

“Just some things I need to take care of.”

And completely ignoring that Stiles’ dad is _right there_ , Void reaches down to cup Stiles’ jaw, thumb hooking under his chin. Then he leans in and brushes his cheek against Stiles’ in a slow, intimate motion, skin on skin and breathing him in, as the gesture flares heat all through Stiles, his face all but burning.

“I’ll be back before you know, little fox.”

The murmur is meant only for him, pressed against his neck, but it’s entirely possible– _no_ , it’s _definitely_ deliberate Void chose to speak that one out loud.

 _Reach for me whenever, darling_ , he adds through the bond, hand slipping from Stiles’ jaw to the rune on his chest, just for the millisecond it takes before Void dissipates into shadows. And Stiles’ face burns, the reality setting in the moment Void’s gone, bringing him into the present – to the fact he’s still sitting beside the bed, unable to face his dad that just witnessed all of it and _good god–_

Clapping his hands together, Stiles shoots up to his feet and starts backing out of the room.

“Uh, so, you want some coffee? Coffee would be good, right? Would be nice, super nice, so I’ll– I’ll go get us some coffee– coffee, yeah, be right back!”

And he dashes before his dad can have a single word in, absolutely refusing to look back at him in fear of evaporating in place from the shame spreading all through his face. Because _of course_ Void had to embarrass him like that, antagonizing his dad in the process too – and from the other side of the bond, Stiles can _feel_ him laughing, _that asshole_. It doesn’t change the writhing heat in his body, though, shivery and sweet and coiling like a purring cat right under his navel. Still, as he sets off down the corridor, his lips tug up into a smile on their own – and when he reaches up to brush his fingertips over the flushed skin of his cheek the phantom caress lingers, warm and soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, this one was tricky! Hope it didn't turn out too confusing and it was enjoyable to read ^^ What do you think of how Void - and the sheriff - handled the whole thing? And can you see the various things set up here? 👀 I'm honestly suuuuper curious what y'all think about this one, please let me know! It was so hard to write, with all the dialogue and characters all at once, but also I kept pouring over that first conversation between Void and the sheriff, wondering if I got it somewhat satisfying. I like it personally, so I hope it makes sense, hah.
> 
> Next chapter will be back to those even longer ones and I'll try to get it to you in around two weeks ^^ I feel like that amount of time is a somewhat sweet spot? Not too long or too short, and I can work on later chapters in the meantime. Ahhh, I'm so excited to be finishing up this story! But lots of exciting things to come before that still - hope y'all aren't tired of this thing yet and will stick with me to some more fun ;D And to all the new readers, lovely to have y'all here!
> 
> As always, you can find me over on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - all the info on updates, my progress and various other ideas of mine is over there, so check it out if it's your thing!  
> Take care y'all and all the love ❤


	22. playing the game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap yourselves in, y'all, this is around 11k packed with content. Enjoy! ^^

Stiles ends up spending most of the day in the hospital, bouncing off ideas and stupid distraction tactics off of his dad to not let it get to him. _It_ meaning Void's absence, a thin barrier kept up on their connection and utter silence where the usual almost hum of the demon's presence should be — Stiles _could_ peek through if he really wanted to, but that... That just wouldn't work, for several reasons, most of which could've been boiled down to Stiles just wanting Void to come back because _he_ wants to, not because Stiles looked and got him to one way or another. It doesn't change how nerve-wracking it is to just wait and _hope,_ despite the anxiety eating away at his insides.

When his dad finally gets fed up with his antics — after Stiles brought him a very much not-healthy by usual standards lunch, no less - and he gets up to leave the hospital, his mind is buzzing and his magic runs little thrills through his veins, but the weariness weighing him down is just as strong. There’s just _so much_ to do, so much shit to deal with — the Beast, the pack, _Scott_ , and who knows what else — just as Stiles wants nothing else but some peace and quiet to deal with that tight coil of tension in-between his ribs. And just as Stiles thinks about it, the connection flares with heat, Void’s presence slipping right underneath his skin and soothing the fried edges of his nerves — then the lowly growled _Missed me, darling?_ fires them up yet again far worse than before. With his face possibly burning, Stiles snarks a quiet _As if_ , but none of them is fooled for even a second. Not when Void chuckles warmly _— fondly_ — and just a moment later Stiles can't help but ask:

_So... you're back?_

Void hums, quite noncommittally, and his ghostly touch weaves around Stiles in a cool embrace. 

_Not quite, I'm yet to be done here_. _I just had to check on my sweet little fox,_ Void purrs, something almost like a hot breath on Stiles' neck. _Make sure you're not missing me too much._

Stiles has to try, very hard, not to shiver — even as the words seep into his chest, taking a tight hold around his lungs. Looking for a distraction from how it all feels, so close and warm, Stiles' mind catches on Void's ethereal presence, still as much under his skin as around him, and he finds himself asking: 

_Not that I'm complaining, but — why do you do this still? Merge with me when you can be out and about? Y’know, free—_

And does the mental equivalent of shrugging and spreading his arms as if to demonstrate the whole world of possibilities.

_You did ask me to stay, didn’t you?_ Void answers, an impression of a teasing smirk going down the bond.

Stiles sputters for a second, almost crashing with a nurse on his way out.

_Well, yeah, but—_ he flushes, ducking out of the way and marching to the exit as quickly as possible — _I didn’t necessarily mean, like, uhhh, y’know—_

_Inside you?_

Stiles almost chokes on his own spit, the words accompanied by a small nip just under his jaw. The very smug, very low and rasping words.

_Asshole_ , he thinks snidely, bright red and skin tingling slightly in the cooler air outside. _Could you just answer the question for once?_

A light chuckle sounds inside his head, an echo of vibration in his own chest, before Void answers.

_It’s easier. Simpler than constantly keeping up illusions when I’m around you. And I quite enjoy feeling you this way, too._

Ignoring, for now, the inviting, dirty part at the end, Stiles chooses to focus on what the explanation implies and — yeah, when looking closely, he can feel Void’s still recovering his normal power, surely but slowly, the hunger only _just_ enough far away on the edges of their senses to be safely ignored. For the moment, at least. So it isn’t that much of a surprise, really, that he’d prefer this to constantly using his magic.

There’s more Stiles wants to ask about, but just then his phone rings with an incoming call, vibrating against his thigh. Wondering who it even might be, an already considerable ball of stress spreading cold in his veins, he digs out the device and his brows rise first in slight confusion — then in immediate worry.

“ _Liam_? What is it? Something happened?”

“Stiles, yes, hi, and no, nothing— I mean, yes? Kind of? I—” The kid sounds breathless, a little ruffled, but not harmed or in danger, so Stiles lets the magic fizzle out in a few sparks over his skin, waiting (not so) patiently for Liam to continue. “I didn’t know who to call.”

It hits him, right there and then, that Liam and Scott fought just few nights ago, and that it was probably bloody, what with Hayden dead, with Scott refusing to bite her, so Stiles falters a bit, heart squeezed even tighter in sympathy for the kid.

“It’s okay,” he says, trying for soft and soothing but he’s a bit too tired to properly manage anything more than a lower tone. “You can always talk to me, Liam.”

Slowly moving to his jeep, he keeps an eye out for anything or anyone, even though it’s only a little past the middle of the day and the middle of the parking lot. On the other side, Liam takes a long breath, almost as if psyching himself up.

“Okay, okay, so you know that Corey and Josh and… Hayden, and the others, were dead, right?” Stiles makes a small sound of acknowledgment, feeling Void’s curiosity piquing under his skin. “Yeah, so… they aren’t anymore.”

And that brings both of them short halfway to the jeep.

“What?”

_More resurrections? That’s…_

_…unlikely. But they’re also not human._

Stiles nods to himself — to Void’s words, more like — and before he can ask more, Liam’s already talking:

“Yeah, we saw them. Me and Mason. They’re alive.”

“Well, that’s…” At first, he wants to say _fucked up_ , but then— “Good, I guess? Are they alright? Like, y’know, _normal_ or are they—”

“They’re fine. Seemed fine.” Liam falters and Stiles can almost visibly see him shrug. “But… there’s more. It’s...”

“Spit it out, Liam.”

“It’s Theo. Hayden said it’s thanks to him.”

And just like that, the phone almost slips through Stiles’ fingers. The numb shock is cold and thoroughly bewildering, but then it swiftly shifts into anger, a spike of fury flowing down his veins and Stiles needs to consciously relax his fingers so he doesn’t crush the device instead.

Of _course_ , it’s Theo. He did want a pack. And now he has one that won’t refuse him because he literally brought them back from death. How, though, is the main thing that bounces around Stiles’ head, just _how_ was he able to pull that off?

_Should have killed him_ , Void muses idly, like an afterthought not a matter of life and death.

Stiles shakes his head — both in answer and to clear his mind.

“Thanks, Liam. That’s— that’s good to know.”

“Yeah, I… could you, maybe, uhh, pass it on, to Scott?”

His lips fall open as if to answer, but nothing comes out. A different kind of echoing ache bounces around his ribs, making his mouth dry and his throat constrict — a growl sounds in his head, deep and reverberating, filling up the shadows of his chest with its angry heat. And it gives Stiles enough focus to answer.

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms.”

Licking his chapped lips in a futile attempt to distract himself, Stiles turns back to his jeep— only to freeze mid-step.

There, coming from the other side of the parking lot, is Scott. Puppy-dog-eyed, shoulders hunched and gaze straying, though he’s clearly coming to them.

Stiles’ jaw tightens painfully from what feels like only half his own volition.

“What? But I thought—”

“Yeah, a lot happened, listen—” Between the hornet’s hive of anger in his chest, the furious buzz of magic in his veins, Scott still coming closer and Void’s viciousness glazed over with smug glee, it’s hard to focus on what’s important. Meaning — Liam, probably alone and scared and not knowing what to do, calling _Stiles_ , of all people, for help. “Is Mason with you?” At least that would give him some peace of mind.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s here.”

“Hi, Stiles!” The voice is a bit distant but cheerful and it’s clear from the sound alone that Mason must be right beside Liam. Hell, maybe he even convinced Liam to call.

“Okay, good. Stay put, _together_ , you two—” Scott doesn’t stop, half-way to the jeep and after a little snarled prod from Void, _afraid to face him, little fox?_ Stiles tightens his fingers into a fist and continues on towards his ex-best friend. “—Don’t do anything stupid, I’ll get back to you.”

“Hey! We won’t—” Liam’s voice sounds from the other side, but Stiles doesn’t wait for him to finish, instead ending the call and pushing the phone deep into his pocket. With the way Scott’s looking at them, it’s safe to assume he’s heard at least half of it.

_I could deal with him_ , Void offers, a smooth purr laced with poison, and Stiles barely restrains himself from shaking his head.

Scott’s already looking far more cautious than normal under the guise of worry — it’s probably genuine, but Stiles doesn’t feel particularly inclined to be empathetic, the bitter taste of betrayal still sitting heavy on his tongue.

They meet beside Roscoe — Stiles stopping near the hood, Scott hovering around the back, a leap distance away. Theoretically safe, in practice a split-second for reaction. Scott’s eyes bore into Stiles like he doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for, _who_ he’s looking at, and the flood of visible emotion in his eyes is _almost_ enough to soften the sour aftertaste. And because it’s abundantly clear that the alpha won’t choke out whatever he meant to say, despite the fact he’s been apparently wanting this meeting, Stiles speaks up with arms crossed over his chest.

“How much did you hear?”

Scott swallows, hesitating for a long moment — gaze searching Stiles as if he could find his answers in plain sight — then seems to decide on something.

“Enough.”

And what the _fuck_ is this answer?!

Stiles brows shot up so quickly and so high he’d worry they’d fly off.

“Oh, really? So you do know Theo’s made himself a lovely new pack of dead— I’m sorry _previously_ dead chimeras?” Scott flinches as if Stiles just backhanded him and few weeks ago it would bother Stiles, but it doesn’t now. “You know, after he destroyed our— _your_ pack and wanted it for himself? And now we have four chimeras running around with death trauma? You _know that?_ Great! Nice talk.”

And Stiles has every intention of getting right into Roscoe to slam the door in Scott’s face, but something in the wolf’s expression stops him halfway.

“ _What_!?” he snaps, fingers digging into his biceps to stop the sparks dancing just under his skin from flying haywire.

“It’s five, actually. Five chimeras. Or more if the rest was hiding, but I don’t think so,” Scott explains, visibly stopping himself from squirming and somewhat sheepish. It only fries at Stiles’ nerves more.

“You don’t think so,” he deadpans, wholly unimpressed. The amusement pouring down from Void’s side of their connection is distracting, but it helps in keeping his magic under wraps.

“Parrish told you about the Last Chimera, right?”

Stiles blinks at the name, but it’s easy to guess what Scott means, so he nods his assent. Scott almost looks relieved at that, then he straightens with his next words, more alpha than human, and Stiles loathes that sight.

“I went to check out the communication tower, there was a hidden entrance from the tunnels, torn open. I’ve only managed to trace the mercury to a… kind of sign, I guess, and then the chimeras tried to jump me.”

_Tried_ , of course, meaning Scott defeated them oh so easily, no trace of injury on him. None Stiles can see, anyway.

“Hayden wasn’t with them, but Tracy was…”

And despite himself, Stiles listens as Scott recounts the fight. Tracy trying to use her poison, Josh’s electrical inclination and Corey’s camouflage. Then Theo showing up and cracking the sign — _Damnatio Memoriae_ , if Scott remembered correctly, which seemed both out of nowhere and worryingly important — with his spiel of working together against a common enemy.

It all sounds believable and his magic agrees, but it only makes Stiles more agitated.

_Great_ , even more problems to deal with.

“Look, Scott, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I was wrong. I’ve let Theo get to me, I pushed my pack away and I was— I was a _shit_ alpha. But I want to _fix_ it. I want to earn my pack— my friends back, and— and I need your help.”

Scott finishes in a tone close to a whisper, rough and trembling, his eyes bright. There’s something impossibly raw in the air around him, glittering in his gaze and warbling over his words. And _goddammit_ , but Stiles can’t help the painful tightening in his own chest.

_Look what we have here_ , Void sneers, a vicious growl that cuts on its way through Stiles’ very soul _, haven’t I told you? All crawling back to you…_

It’s true. It’s painfully, horribly true, and Stiles clenches his jaw against the onslaught of life-long hurt.

“And why would I even help you?” he bites, almost snarling in the face of his ex-best friend, of years in the second place to everything else — the pack, the girl, the wolf, the moon, anything that _wasn’t_ Stiles. The hollow place where a bond used to be. “I’m not part of the pack anymore, in case you haven’t noticed. And I _don’t need_ it.”

Which is true, but doesn’t change the fact that he loved it, that those were his friends too. But with everything as it is now, Stiles doubts he could ever come back to being in the pack as he once was.

Shockingly enough, Scott nods, even when it very clearly pains him to do that.

“I know, I’m not asking you to be back. I’d— I’d want you back, but I understand, I get it. It’s just…” He swallows heavily, a kind of nervous energy trembling in the set of his shoulders, but his next words shock Stiles even more. “You were right. So many times you told me and I didn’t listen, and I know I should’ve. You know more than anyone, you know how it should be, so I— I guess I want to learn. How to be an alpha. How to be— a friend, again. If that’s something you’d want.”

And Stiles doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what to think. Stiles’ brain just plain decided to nope out, waved a white flag, and fucked off to leave him with this mess. But… he finds himself rooted to the spot when just moments ago he was ready to peel off from the parking lot and never look back.

Something cool brushes against his arms, a feather-light caress strangely akin to trailing fingertips— or the edge of a blade. And all at once, Stiles is reminded that it’s not so simple anymore. And even though Scott looks earnest, he still saw Stiles opening the triskelion urn. There's still... just too much between them now.

Stiles straightens his spine, shoulders setting back, and a strange calm settles over him.

“You do know I’m different now, right? I’ve been different for a long time.” _You don’t know me anymore_ , he thinks quietly to himself, _if you ever really knew me._ Then his heart hammers against his ribs, blood rushing with a new thrill. “And I’m not alone anymore.”

The caress solidifies, almost physical in its sharp touch, a set of claws dragging down Stiles’ arm, his neck, potent heat spreading just under his skin and inhuman eyes watching him with unwavering attention.

It’s a heady thing, to say it out loud, to even entertain the thought to be real — that Stiles isn’t alone anymore. And that he won’t be.

_Never_ , the demon snarls, _never again_.

“I won't help you if you decide to hunt either one of us.”

And when Scott barely stops himself from stepping back it almost feels like a triumph. A flicker of satisfaction, dark and insatiable, fueled by the knowledge that now — now Stiles is as much of a threat as the demon.

But, surprisingly enough, Scott stands his ground.

“I won’t,” he says, a conviction in his voice Stiles wouldn’t expect — it wavers in tone, but rings sincere in his scent, heavily veiled with old pain and grief as it is. “It was your decision and I— I trust you. I should’ve long ago, but I didn’t, so I’m doing it now. If—” his voice gives out, a flash of memory behind glimmering eyes Stiles could easily guess, before Scott steels himself again, “—if that’s what you want, I won’t step in your way.”

“It’s not that simple—”

“I know. But I’m willing to try. I want to try.”

For a long moment, Stiles can only watch him — trying to evaluate if _he_ can trust Scott, if he can take his word and try. Not for any of them, for a friendship that he knows will never come back, and even if it does then never in the same way, but maybe… maybe for the pack. For the innocent people of Beacon Hills that need protection.

The decision is made before he can think about it too much, maybe it was decided long ago already, but still — Stiles hesitates. Void’s touch is still there, lighter, but in no way less present, yet Stiles can’t exactly tell what the demon thinks. He’s gone quiet, only that innate focus ever fixed on him. It doesn’t feel right to speak without his input. And that thought seems to please Void, a low chuckle going down the bond just as ghostly fingers claw lightly over Stiles' scalp, a shiver following swiftly.

_He’s no match for us,_ he says easily, a brush just under Stiles’ ear like a kiss, _let him try_.

For some reason, it makes Stiles’ tongue dart out to lick over his lips. Then he reaches for the buzz in his blood, for the magic swirling and coiling and eager. The answer comes unbidden.

“Alright, I’ll help you.”

✦✧✦✧

It’s already growing dark by the time Stiles rolls into the driveway at home, poor Roscoe sputtering and whining despite the repairs he got just done. Stiles would need to leave the jeep in the shop for far longer than just a few hours when they get back, hopefully with Kira in tow, but for now it’s enough — with a little bit of magic they should manage the trip to Mexico fairly easily. He should probably be concerned about finding money to pay for all the work that would undoubtedly be needed for Roscoe to run better, but one amused _no need to worry about that now_ from Void gave him some serious suspicions he wasn’t quite ready to talk about with the demon, even if they seemed a bit ridiculous.

All those thoughts get quickly washed away though, as Stiles steps out on the driveway and his wards prickle like little sparks under his skin with a different kind of awareness. Because there’s someone inside. And it’s no one the spell recognizes.

Somehow conscious enough to know he might be watched, Stiles doesn’t freeze, letting muscle memory pull him through locking up Roscoe and slowly walking up to the house. His pulse picks up, just slightly, but he makes sure his cloaking rune takes care of that, and his blood rushes with the kind of jittery, nervous anticipation Stiles already knows to be his magic’s agitation.

Void’s not with him at the exact moment and he almost regrets that before remembering he can easily take care of most things these days. Still, as his keys jingle in the lock — still shut and seemingly untouched — some of his feelings must’ve bled through because no sooner than Stiles is checking the kitchen under the disguise of getting some water, the connection pulses in time with his heartbeat. And the demon catches on almost instantly, like the smallest peek through the bond is enough to reveal every detail.

_An intruder?_ he asks, thoroughly amused and only slightly curious, the low timbre of his voice raising the little hairs on Stiles’ neck.

_Probably._

Licking his lips in a mix of excitement and dread, Stiles leaves the kitchen through the dining room, the stretch of his senses coming back with the certainty no one’s there, and makes for the stairs. It’s almost laughably easy to guess that whoever it is, they’re probably waiting in his bedroom.

_Need a hand, darling?_

_I can handle myself._

Stiles scoffs, brows furrowing, and doesn’t quite know where exactly the irritation came from. Definitely not from the way the nickname makes warmth spread under his skin.

_Oh, I don’t doubt that._ And he can easily imagine the smug smirk on Void’s face, a wicked gleam to those black eyes. _But I am mostly done here, so…_

Stiles is almost at the top when a new scent reaches his nose, coming from the crooked open door to his bedroom — he can’t see inside yet, but the smell is vaguely familiar. As if he encountered it enough times to remember, but not to associate someone with it, not like with— with the pack.

_I wouldn’t mind the company_ , he answers Void, even the voice in his head sounding somewhat out of breath, mind catching and stumbling over what he’s admitting to.

The responding chuckle is low and honey-sweet before Void retreats with a silent promise of swiftly coming back that makes gooseflesh travel down Stiles’ spine. It’s not an unwelcome sensation, in fact, Stiles wouldn’t mind chasing it for more, but it’s also distracting, so he pushes it aside just as his hand lands on the handle. So close he can almost, _almost_ pinpoint the stranger inside.

Then he pushes the door open, the room coming into view, magic surging up his veins and sparking just under his skin and—

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

Right there, casually inspecting the crime board that got pushed to the far right, stands Theo. Draped in a light pink sweatshirt and easy confidence that wavers on edges as he turns around to face Stiles, that asshole-smile plastered on his lips even when his eyes roam over Stiles with a clearly calculating look.

“Stiles,” he greets then, smile turning more real, more self-assured. Yet Stiles can’t help but think it’s acted far more than it ever was.

Maybe that’s a good moment to test what Theo’s truly made of.

So Stiles cocks his head, face smoothing in a way he dimly remembers from times _back then_ , and thinks it’s probably not going to work, but he might as well—

“And what makes you think it’s me?”

A trickle of doubt flashes through blue eyes, quick enough he wouldn’t notice if he wasn’t specifically looking for it, but then it’s covered in the same calculating gaze, smile sliding off, and Stiles comes to a realization Theo’s _considering_ something. _Why is he even here?_ He wonders, not dropping his own act until Theo straightens and all pretense seemingly falls away.

“It’s your scent.”

Stiles blinks, easily taken out of his own facade, and frowns.

“And what of it?”

He makes sure most of his emotions and the ticks to his heartbeat are covered by his cloaking just as the distinct smell of his magic always is, but otherwise doesn’t hide anything else. Was that a mistake?

Theo smiles again, but it’s small and more bitter-sharp than smug.

“It changed. When you let the Nogitsune take control, in the parking lot. It got practically covered back then.”

And Stiles can’t help the way his brows rise in surprise. That’s— Not something he even considered may have happened. And Void’s still not back from the silent end of their bond, so he can’t even ask him about it — then again, he barely has time to wonder when Theo takes a step closer, a new kind of glimmer to his eyes. Stiles barely holds back the sparks trying to break free from his fingertips.

“You let it out, didn’t you? The Nogitsune.”

At that, Stiles can’t help but straighten, immediately on alert. Which he probably should've stopped himself from doing by how Theo catches every single change to his posture, the bastard. It’s almost no wonder that he manipulated everyone around so well, with how observant and focused he now revealed to truly be — and yet besides the fascination filling his blue eyes, there’s a hint of… maybe not fear, but certainly some kind of caution in there. It’s both surprisingly satisfying and making Stiles all the more wary.

“Someone told you that?” Raising a single brow, he watches for a reaction — and the returning smug smirk isn’t exactly what he expected.

“I don’t need anyone telling me that, I might not be a true were’, but at least I know how to use my senses,” he says with easy confidence and, as much as Stiles hates to admit it, it’s true — besides maybe Malia, Theo definitely knew the most how to utilize them to his advantage, _still_

“Alright, smartass, shock me. How would you know?”

“Told you already, your scent.”

Stiles is absolutely ready to send some very nasty magic Theo’s way to finally make him _talk_ , but he raises his hands placantly the second Stiles’ eyes narrow in clear irritation.

“It was your own, before the Nogitsune, and I’m pretty sure it came back to normal after you took the wheel back. But it’s different now.”

“How?”

If he wasn’t so frustrated he’d see it coming from miles away, hell, he should know _immediately_ what Theo means. But agitated and on edge as Stiles was in the moment, he doesn’t catch on quick enough. And the quirk to Theo’s smirk is oh so telling.

“Come on, Stiles. I can smell it scented you. Recently, too, to be so fresh. And I’m pretty sure it has to be free to do that.”

And, just like that, Stiles draws a blank.

He hadn’t even thought about it — which now is so obvious he kind of wants to smack himself with a chair. All the cloaking and covering was always for him — his magic, his emotions, his erratic heartbeat, but he never thought about covering up the— well, the very thorough scenting Void offered him. And it’s also so achingly evident — because it is what it is. The very act of claiming with scent — covering it up would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it? So of course he didn’t, subconsciously or not, choosing to display that very claim.

There’s nothing for Stiles to say to that, mind swirling with the revelation and Theo very clearly pleased with himself, but a second later it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Brilliant observation—”

A blade presses right over Theo’s jugular, katana glinting in the fading light, and Void materializes right behind the chimera, all the shadows writhing and pulling to form the spirit’s shape.

“I wonder, how long it took you to figure it out?” he mock-muses, the sharp edge nicking the skin under it with just the lightest pressure — the cut immediately tries to knit back together only to be broken yet again.

Theo tenses up, hands raised and head held high as if it would prevent the blade from cutting deeper, but Stiles can only focus on Void’s sharp grin over the chimera’s shoulder. Something acidic and bitter surges up his throat, coiling right underneath his sternum, at the sight of the demon almost pressed to Theo’s back, confident and smiling and undeniably dangerous.

“I came in peace,” Theo starts and Void huffs out a low chuckle, amused and languid and that hot breath stirring in blond hair. Stiles takes small pleasure in knowing the chimera looks even smaller against the demon, even if the sight makes his jaw tense almost to the point of pain.

“No doubt, but—” Void shifts the blade, just the smallest bit, just so a droplet of blood trickles down and the sweet nick of pain and fear saturates the air. “—I think I’d prefer you nice and quiet unless asked.” And he reaches with his other hand, nails sharp, pointed claws that he presses right against Theo’s stomach, almost an embrace if not for the lack of touch and the clear threat. “What do you say, Theo? Will you be a good boy?”

Stiles can see Theo nodding, sharp and jerky as not to aggravate the cut, but it barely registers because his sole focus is pinpointed on Void’s hand, on those claws, sharp and deadly and _pressed_ against the pink material of Theo’s sweatshirt, almost pricking right trough. And his own fists clench, white-knuckled, and his jaw locks up, muscles jumping on the sharp breath hissing in his lungs, and _why is he so fucking mad?!_ It’s bitter and sour and white-hot, flaring through his veins with molten heat, and his eyes itch for the quickest of seconds, sight glazed over with new colors and currents and so, so much _brighter_ — Void’s eyes flick up and catch his gaze, flashing moonlight-silver and vulpine-slitted, as if in answer to something Stiles can’t exactly guess right now, and the world slams back into him.

Taking a shuddering, long breath, Stiles blinks away the new sight— not new, he had it before, what it is, why is— _later_ — he’ll think about it later —and it’s only a small grace that he doesn’t flush all the way up to his ears. The smirk on Void’s lips has a new curve to it and his eyes are back to all black that seems to want to draw Stiles in and pull and tear and _devour_ , a well of bottomless hunger tinged with something— something like… pride? And there’s that familiar heavy sweetness in the air, potent and swirling in his gut, pooling heat low and making his tongue dart out to lick at cracked lips. Stiles blinks again and that seems to break the spell, or whatever it was, enough for his brain to catch to the fact Theo is _right there_ , watching Stiles with rapt attention, and _still too fucking close to—_

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he grits out instead, not bothering to hide the anger and disgust and jea— Almost snarling at Theo’s bright blue gaze.

At least the stench of fear sweetens over the scent of realization that’s definitely not Stiles’. And Void’s sole focus seems back on him too, as if the fact he’s holding a chimera hostage is barely an afterthought — though, Stiles is pretty sure that if Theo tried anything, he’d quickly lose his head. Or his guts. Stiles wouldn’t mind either.

“I might have… reconsidered the position I’m in all of this,” Theo starts, carefully weighing his words, gaze briefly flicking down to the blade. “As I said, I’m not stupid—”

“Fucking debatable.”

“—I’m not about to step in your way,” he continues, as if unbothered by Stiles’ snark, even if the clear way he indicates both of them, not only the demon currently pressing a blade to his neck, speaks of the opposite. Theo’s definitely thought this through, it seems. “I wanted an out from the Dread Doctors for a while now. This here was my chance, but, well, it didn’t work. Probably won’t work anymore.” Something like self-deprecation curls at the side of his mouth, eyes dull and hard. “And I’m pretty sure whatever you’re planning, you will win. So I figured, I’d prefer to be on the winning side.”

It all sounds a bit too convenient for Stiles’ liking. Theo easily manipulated a lot of people, seemed to have plans on top of plans, schemes really, so this could be one of them. Then again, Void did leave him on a brink of death back then, in a kind of personal Hell, so maybe…

He catches Void’s eyes again, silently inquiring. The demon’s smirk widens and he tilts the blade until it cuts just a tad bit deeper.

Theo tenses up even more, almost on his tiptoes now, eyes on the blade and fear spiking high in the air.

“I just want to live, I swear.”

“Oh, you swear? That’s interesting.” Void muses, the claws easily puncturing through the sweatshirt, but not yet drawing blood. “So are you here to whine about your pitiful life or do you have something useful for us?”

Theo gulps, swallowing loudly in the following silence, before taking what seems to be a calming breath. Stiles is already kind of sick from looking at both of them but stops himself long enough for Theo to talk.

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” he offers, twitching on the spot and freezing when Void’s claws get a bit too close to breaking skin. “I’ve been with the Doctors for years, I know them and most of their secrets. I’ll tell you what you want.”

They _could_ use more information. And Stiles is almost sure Void would have gone after Theo in his own time for exactly that which— The thought makes that bitter feeling in his chest to expand and surge up to his throat, acidic bile stinging on its way.

Void makes a small noise of consideration and Stiles clenches his jaw again, watching the demon’s idle attention shifting.

“And what makes you think that’s enough to let you live?”

Claws brushing and blade tilting for more blood and _leaning_ in—

“ _Void—_ ”

It slipped. It _slipped_ — sharp and sour and cutting up his throat — and now Void’s looking at him with raised brow and Stiles panics because he hadn’t planned on that, it _slipped_ and fuck, fuck—

_Please, can you just…_

His mouth goes dry and he can’t finish the thought, blank for whatever he could say, _wants_ to say, locked up with that midnight stare that seems to reach all the way to his very core. Finally, Void huffs out a small breath and takes his hand back, but the blade stays where it was.

_Your call, little fox._

And something unravels, deep, deep inside the shadows in his chest.

“Everything we want to know, Theo,” he says, clearing out his throat when his voice sounds rough, and sets his shoulders. “And if we find out you lied your ass off, _I_ will end you. God fucking knows you deserve far worse for what you’ve done to Lydia.”

The only thing that's stopping Stiles from fucking him up for that is the fact Stiles doesn't want to take the decision from Lydia.

Theo swallows again, trying for the smirk, wavering as it is, yet his gaze when it meets Stiles’ seems somehow both satisfied and grim.

“Fair enough.”

“Good.”

And so Stiles nods, sharply, and flicks his eyes up to Void’s — black and fathomless and impossible to read — before moving to sit on the edge of his bed. At the same time, he gives Void a small nudge through the bond, a silent plea, and the eye roll he gets in response is almost enough. Then Void moves, circling Theo slow and steady, a predator gauging and taunting his prey, the blade never leaving the chimera’s neck, and Stiles tenses up.

The edge cuts even deeper as he moves, slicing into wounded flesh and spiking the pain sweetening Theo’s scent — sharp and pricking and positively delicious — before he stops right in front of him, the length of the katana in-between. It gleams in the rising moonlight and Void looks the chimera over, slowly, lazily, something indescribable in his eyes that makes Stiles’ skin crawl and fingertips spark with magic.

“Behave—” he says, smooth and low and not even a trace of the growl, yet somehow all that more dangerous for it, as he shifts the katana until its tip sits right in the hollow of Theo’s throat, where one strike would end up fatal, a cruel smile on his lips, “—and maybe you will get to keep your life.”

Wisely, Theo stays silent, and the tension laying thick in the air pricks at Stiles’ skin, itching and biting and focused on the scene before him. It’s hard to keep himself in place when Void seizes up the chimera once more, something like consideration in his gaze, before the light hum from the back of his throat cuts the silence — and he drops the blade.

Something heavy and coiled unravels slightly in Stiles’ rigid shoulders when Void moves away from Theo, wiping the blood away with a piece of dark cloth to then drape himself over the bed to Stiles’ left. Seemingly relaxed and uncaring, propped against the headboard with the katana laid out on his knees, one leg bent on the covers, one resting on the floor, he almost looks innocent, uncaring. But one wrong move and—

Stiles drags his gaze away back to Theo, the chimera watching them both with wary interest, a careful type of curious attention, and it’s really getting on his nerves.

“Sit,” he grits out, chin jutting out to the desk-chair, and Theo follows without complaint, if with a smirk. Void’s gaze feels heavy, a heated weight on his skin, the rune prickling and pulsing, but Stiles refuses to acknowledge it and instead racks his brain. There’s so much he wants to know, so… “Start with the chimeras. How’d you resurrect them?”

✦✧✦✧

Surprisingly enough, Theo seems to be true to his word, disclosing every piece of information Stiles asks for and Void stays mostly quiet throughout, almost bored if not for the sharp as blade look he occasionally gives the chimera. Stiles is mostly successful with ignoring _that_ , instead choosing to focus on his spinning mind and everything Theo’s saying.

Turns out Dread Doctors have some kind of liquid keeping them alive and capable of resurrecting their experiments, produced by a mix of science and an almost hundred years old alpha werewolf closed off in a tank — _might need to take care of that too,_ Void sounded in his head then and Stiles’ magic agreed, a familiar hum of premonition in his veins. But it could wait, for now. They’d need to find out where they’ve gone to — “they were hiding out in the tunnels, in a hidden room, but they’ve been gone for some time now. I don’t know where they went off to,” Theo said, a hint of frustration to his voice — or maybe more pressingly, who was the Last Chimera. The Beast.

“And you don’t know who it is?” Stiles can’t help but feel dubious, regarding Theo with suspicion nipping at his muscles. Suspicion and wariness — nothing more, nothing less.

“No. Believe it or not, they weren’t exactly forthcoming with information.”

A grimace twists Stiles’ lips, but he has nothing to say to this — Theo seems honest, a hint of his own irritation coming through. He sighs then, kind of deep and tired, before looking between Stiles and Void and then lowering his gaze.

“Look, resurrecting that beast was their goal for as long as I remember, probably far longer. I don’t know why, but they seem obsessed with it.”

That makes Void slightly perk up through the bond, an equivalent of a fox pricking his ears in interest. Stiles can’t help but look at him, now that he can, instead of only referring to their bond — it’s an instinct almost, as if he’s drawn to make sure the demon is there. And he is, of course, appearing to be deep in idle thought, fingers running over the blade and the handle, nimble and quick and lightly tapping out a rhythm he’s unable to follow.

“They’re not the only ones, though, are they?” the demon muses, one hand circling around the handle in a loose grip. Then he turns to Theo, head slightly cocked and eyes narrowing in a look Stiles remembers all too well, a trickster playing its game. “You have a vast interest in the Beast—”

Theo stiffens, just slightly, and Stiles’ heart quickens — Void’s clearly onto something, mouth curling in one corner.

“—so much power in one place, huh? It’s almost… tempting, isn’t it?”

And just like that, it all clicks into place. Power. Of course. What else would Theo want? Manipulation was all about power — he may have wanted a pack, but a pack was sort of power in and of itself, probably a way for more power, too.

From the way Theo flicks his gaze between them, jaw clenched and muscles tense, he knows they figured it out.

“You want to kill it for its power,” Stiles guesses, barely resisting not gritting his teeth, and when Theo stiffens even more, something occurs to him, a sudden wash of realization making him straighten. “You didn’t get Scott’s, so you want the Beast now.” He shakes his head, slightly incredulous, even if now it does make a twisted sense.

Why he was so invested with Liam and Hayden, why pitch Liam against Scott and tear them apart, why try and stop Stiles from going for Scott, why—

“Yes, that was the plan, wasn’t it?” Void muses again, a small, sharp grin on his mouth. “Get the alpha spark from the angry pup when everyone else is otherwise distracted. And it _almost_ worked, didn’t it?”

Anger flares up in the air, hot and biting and tasting of smoke, tinged with the sour scent of frustration as Theo fights himself to stay calm and collected, silent as he’s stared down by a true trickster. Stiles watches both of them, that bitter feeling rearing its ugly head yet again at the way Void’s attention seems fully on the chimera, spreading smoky-sour up his throat.

“When you woke up from those lovely nightmares, it was already too late, wasn’t it?” There’s no mistaking that pure, mean glee in the demon’s low voice. “Enjoyed seeing your sister again?”

“Can’t say I did,” Theo grits it out from between locked teeth, hands gripped together in a tight, white-knuckled grip. “Listen, yes, I want— wanted the Beast’s power. But that’s not what’s important, the important thing is that it’s getting stronger and it will _keep_ getting stronger, and when it’s strong enough to take over whoever is possessed by it, that someone will be gone forever and then there will be no other way but to kill it. And I can do it if no one else will.”

Determination fills the air alongside the subsided anger, set in Theo’s shoulders, but it does nothing to hide the true intention underneath.

All of them know who he means, who’s so opposed to killing even when it seems the only way, but this time Stiles doesn’t fully agree. He’s about ready to launch into a rant when Void’s low chuckle stops him. The demon looks thoroughly amused in the face of their confusion.

“And you think yourself strong enough to defeat it? I’d love to see you try,” he says, slick malice twinned with mocking amusement. “It would _so easily_ tear you apart, a cheap imitation of a were’ that you are. Because that _is_ what you are, aren’t you? Not even a success.” He grins, sharp and mean and cutting. “But a failure.”

“I’m _not a failure_!” Theo snarls, knocked off balance and ripping up from the chair, claws already out. “I was their _first_ success. Every _next—_ ”

“THEO!”

The chimera stops immediately, flinching on the spot at the cutting edge of his name, halfway on his way to Void — coiled and grinning and absolutely ready to respond with the blade in hand, just waiting for the opportunity to attack — when Stiles shots up from his place, sight flashing in new colors and layers and voice laced over with a command he never even entertained could come through as strong as an alpha’s order. Theo almost curls in on himself, turned back to Stiles, but refusing to meet his gaze, and the sight almost makes him flinch back.

Blinking rapidly, Stiles realizes what he did with a distant sort of confusion — it would definitely throw him off right then and there if not for the warm, pleased thrill over the bond, the burn-itch of black eyes boring into his face. It fuels the writhing shadows in his chest and coaxes the almost growled tone of his voice as Stiles speaks up again, eyes on Theo.

“You’re fucking delusional if you think I’ll let you anywhere near the Beast now,” he snarls, heart beating wildly and little sparks crawling over his fingertips as Theo’s gaze flicks up to him, the chimera’s jaw clenched tight as his fists. _Good_. “There’s a teenager underneath it and if I can, _I am_ saving them. Try getting in my way and you will fucking _wish_ for those nightmares again.”

His sight flickers, layers of bright colors and shadows everywhere, and Theo seems to jerk back again, gnashing his teeth with an almost audible click. It’s only a second and Stiles doesn’t have the time to focus on it, but the effect is making his buzzing magic flare in response, eager and wanting and _hungry_. And the absolutely thrilling, potent heat trickling down the connection to pool in his gut doesn’t help.

“Get the fuck out,” he grits out finally and takes small pleasure in seeing Theo basically flee the room.

The chimera gives them both a last, hesitant sort of look, all tensed up and on edge, before slipping out the window. Stiles doesn’t let himself relax, though, until he feels Theo leave the wards — but even then, as he releases a deep, shuddering breath, he can’t help but feel jittery with his magic’s energetic buzzing. He tries to release some of it by fueling the spells around his home, strengthening and adding more layers, yet it only seems to amp up the writhing power.

“You had to provoke him, didn’t you? You just couldn’t let this fucking occasion go.”

Frustration spiraling and frying at his nerves, Stiles drags heavy fingers through his hair as Void stands up from the bed, a quiet _snick_ of sheathed blade sounding in the air. A low chuckle follows it, the demon giving him an amused glance from under his eyelashes.

“You’re saying it like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“I didn’t,” Stiles protests, voice roughed up in frustration, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

And the truth is, he did enjoy it. Maybe not how it happened — how Void kept his sole focus on Theo, sharp and unrelenting and wholly on the chimera, how his voice dropped and teased and drawled in that smooth, smooth tone directed to—

His jaw locks up even at the memory, that bitter-sour feeling living inside his chest flaring up and biting up the inside of his throat, a poisonous kind of fire in-between his ribs that shivered in satisfaction at the way Theo covered, trembled at the force of Stiles’ command, fearful and ashamed and stopped mid-stride because he wouldn’t, wouldn’t dare to come closer, Stiles would not see it again, won’t _allow_ it again, and—

The dimness of his bedroom lights up with ghostly traces of colors, his sight glazed over with that new sense again, and it sidetracks the frustration a bit. It doesn’t leave immediately this time, capturing all of Stiles’ attention, steering it away from what he hasn’t realized he’s been stewing in. And because he’s been partly facing Void, now his eyes catch on the demon and his breath comes up short.

Void grins, eyes flickering vulpine-silver, before he sets the katana down beside the bed, braced on the bedside table, and crosses the space between them until they’re barely inches apart. But Stiles only distantly notes their closeness, completely captured by his new sight— by how the shadows flicker around Void, swirling darkness that seems to capture all the light and reflect a myriad of bright colors, stars and galaxies and shining silver, the deepest black he’s ever seen, a bottomless, fathomless abyss and yet, so full of every shade that ever existed.

“Enjoying what you see, little fox?” Void's voice sounds teasing, a low rumble, but underneath swims something gentle, something almost tender.

The darkness swirls into a shape and Stiles is briefly transported into the dream-clearing, Void pinning him back to the Nemeton and shadows writhing into powerful tails. But this time it’s so much… _more._

“You’re…”

No words come as he can’t seem to tear his gaze away, so absorbed by the spirit in front of him, by its foreign, dangerous, beautiful nature, that he unconsciously raises his own hand as if trying to touch the very darkness. Fingers circle his wrist then, cool and gentle, and Stiles blinks back to some awareness — his face flushes with heat upon noticing the soft glimmer in Void’s eyes and realizing what exactly he’s been trying to do. But then Void’s cupping his chin, tipping it to their right and—

“Look, little fox,” he murmurs, fingers brushing over heated skin, and Stiles looks _—_

He’s glowing.

There’s a reflection of both of them staring back, a mirror undoubtedly conjured by Void’s illusion, and Stiles’ skin glows with a soft, sun-bright, golden shine. It twines around his tattoos, catching in the crevices of his body, and brushes up against the shadows surrounding Void where they’re touching — light and darkness twining together. Stiles can’t quite catch his own breath.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Void’s voice is a warm whisper, breathy and hoarse and fanning over Stiles’ own tingling lips.

He can’t help but look up, falter at how his eyes shine pure gold, all the way through, the color of midday sun on clear sky, and yet what makes his heart stutter is the way Void’s looking at him. Not at his reflection, no, the demon’s black-silver eyes are focused on Stiles and Stiles only, an indescribable gaze slowly tracing every line and contour of his face. And so Stiles turns back, mixing their breathes together as their noses brush, just slightly, the contact sending a sharp shiver down his spine. Void doesn’t look away.

“Such a beauty, aren’t you?” he muses, fingers slipping down Stiles’ skin, covering his throat, tips digging into his neck with the slightest pressure to make him swallow a whimper. Wicked sharp claws grazing over his jugular and Stiles trembles.

The brightness of this new sense eases off then, the wonderful glaze ebbing away until it disappears, bringing Stiles’ old, normal sight back, seemingly soft in the dimness of his room, lit only by the moonlight filtering in from the outside, but it only makes the situation feel more acute, more real, closer and so much heavier.

“Void…”

He can’t muster any words, the name falling into whisper, almost breathed right into parted, pale lips as the demon watches him with dark eyes.

His hand slips even lower and it wakes a flicker of shudder-inducing disappointment in Stiles before Void stops it right over his rune — _the_ rune, the one even Stiles dubbed his shadow’s, the rune that’s very much Void’s, black and gorgeous and right over Stiles’ heart. It’s not the first time since he’s free that he paid it any attention, but it flares with heat in response anyway.

“What do you want, Stiles?”

Black eyes flick up to meet his and Stiles’ breath catches.

Void means it very much as a question — but it’s also an offer. An in — and an out. What they seem to, inevitably, draw to every time. The status quo Stiles is so terrified of breaking. Because even if he knows the answer, feels it throbbing in his very core, it still won’t pass through his lips.

Long, agonizing seconds pass in-between their mixed breaths and even when Stiles’ mouth parts as if to answer, to keep the moment from shattering apart, nothing comes. And Void knows, an echo of cool sensation down the bond like a breeze.

“I see,” he says, voice carefully blank of emotion.

But the words cut deep, echoing from moments past, and when he moves, Stiles panics— He catches Void’s wrist when his hand starts slipping down from the rune, holding it there as if that would be enough not to splinter apart the tense air between them. Void’s eyes gleam in something Stiles can’t name, covered up by a wall of steady focus.

“Not— not yet,” he manages finally, wavering and unsteady, a little promise carried away by the wind. It feels like his heart’s beating right up his throat when he adds— “Soon.”

The way Void’s lips quirk in one corner is almost enough to make Stiles weak with relief. His hand is cool over his heart, yet heat spreads underneath it, pulsing with the beat and thrilling along the bond. A thumb brushes over the pulse-point in his other wrist and Stiles blinks in surprise, all at once realizing they are both, in a way, holding onto each other. Void’s barely-there smile curves deeper— then he’s leaning in. Stiles is already moving into it before he knows what’s happening — but he’s either too late or Void avoided it, only letting their cheeks brush together, cool on heated skin. It’s hard to push down the disappointment that seizes up Stiles' ribs.

“Take all the time you need, little fox,” Void presses into Stiles’ jaw before trailing higher, lips at his ear and sharp grin on pale lips. “ _I’m patient._ ”

Stiles barely catches the whimper before it escapes, biting down on his lip, _hard_ , and eyes shut tight. When Void moves this time he doesn’t protest, letting him step away, letting the hands slip down and leave a trail of tingling sensation.

Packing away the heat in his gut and the sour disappointment in-between his ribs, Stiles takes a long, calming breath, before looking up again. Just as Void’s sliding out of the dark denim jacket to drape it over the desk chair, left in a black fitted shirt that Stiles is sure would be amazingly soft under his fingertips. They’re definitely not his clothes, too, he’d notice.

The simple, domestic nature of the moment escapes Stiles only barely when Void speaks up again.

“I may know why they’re obsessed with the Beast.”

Stiles blinks in confusion, momentarily thrown with the topic change and the way Void casually leans on the desk, hands hooked in the pockets of his dark, just as fitted jeans. The sight is as surreal as it is nice — there’s the smallest flicker of envy for the way the demon seems to exude that easy confidence making anyone at least twice as attractive. It’s honestly unfair. But it’s also weird enough that Stiles is able to scramble back some semblance of a working brain.

“And? What is it?”

He’s tempted to go straight to Void — looking back to him with that small smile like he knows exactly what Stiles is thinking — so instead he plops back down on the bed. It’s going to get some time to get used to, Stiles can already tell — that surreal domesticity.

“There were few humans that followed the Beast while it still lived.” Void’s eyes don't leave him, that innate focus never wavering, but his low voice stays steady and calm. Stiles tries very hard not to squirm under his attention. “Most of them were hunters, of course, and among them, most noticeably, the werewolf’s sister.”

Stiles’ brow raises up, mind latching on Void’s words — his curiousness always did get ahead of him.

“His sister hunted him?”

“Yes.” Void’s grin sharpens, just slightly. “And she did manage to kill the Beast, too. Did you know your local friendly hunter family are descendants of hers?”

“You mean the Argents? But that—”

Argent, _silver_ , the legend so tightly woven in their family, it does make sense, even if it makes Stiles’ thoughts spin in quiet astonishment. And spike with a new, cool hope that—

“Okay, so could they know how to kill it?”

Not that he wants to, necessarily, do it — not when they can still save the teenager, but... _No,_ Stiles won’t let himself consider it, not until he has to. The question is asked already, though, and Void’s lips quirk.

“She crafted a special weapon, but unfortunately, my... source didn’t have the knowledge of its whereabouts.” There’s something... almost cruel to Void’s tone, a note of delighted malice, but then he adds with a shrug: “Though I suppose you wouldn’t use it anyway, would you?”

Stiles licks his lower lip, a slow drag of a tongue, trying to gather his scrambled thoughts — it feels like Void’s toying with him, for some reason, leaving a trail of crumbs to either follow or ignore. And maybe it’d be safer not to acknowledge it, to get the easy out instead of asking, but Stiles wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t get immediately drawn into the lilt of Void’s voice.

“And who’s your source?”

The smile that curves Void’s pale lips is small, but absolutely cutting. Stiles can’t exactly name the expression on his face — it wakes little, cold shivers all over his skin, something pleased, something cruel, very otherworldly and wicked — yet it’s undeniably clear it isn’t one any human would be capable of.

“I must say, I’ve rarely been this disgusted, but—” the flash of teeth is sharp, silver-white “—the old hunter proved useful at his end.”

And Stiles starts, sucking a sharp hissing breath, the shock of it like a cold spike.

“Gerard.”

It tastes sour in his mouth, acidic like bile rising up the inside of his throat. But it’s only a momentary surprise, because all at once it makes perfect sense — where Void disappeared to right after they left the hospital, just before Stiles came home, why looking into the bond didn’t bring with it the always lurking, pulsing ache of hunger.

With surprising clarity Stiles realizes Void’s sated — or as much as an immortal, insatiable being could be sated — an aura of power surrounding the demon like shadows thickening in the corners of Stiles’ bedroom. It’s not a halo or anything visible, not without the aid of his second sight, but an easily felt sensation, an eerily dangerous thrill, the kind of feeling that makes normal humans flee, one that translates into the very instincts of every animal — pray recognizing the predator closing in. And Stiles’ magic bristles at the closeness of such a danger, but right under the prickling there’s the swim of interest, an eager curiosity that wants to reach out and feel, connect; weave and twine and create something new. Which it already did, in a way. It’s startling, when the thought arrives — that they’re both in bodies created by their combined magic.

Void watches him quietly through all the new revelations, an inner turmoil undoubtedly sipping through the bond as much as emotions and magic, black eyes somehow softer without ever losing that innate focus, a powerful spirit disguised as a human. And Stiles needs to forcefully push all the new thoughts away, get back to what the conversation was even about, blinking rapidly as if it would clear the haze in his mind.

“...what did you do?” he asks finally, thinking that maybe it should sound accusing, yet comes out soft, an almost whisper.

Even if he wanted to, Stiles can’t exactly forget what Gerard did — _whom_ he did it to, the mess of emotions it brings — anger, pain, regret, _fury_ , for all the lives lost that never deserved death. The way Boyd and Erica hanged from the ceiling, tortured for sick gratification of a psychopath loving to cause pain in the guise of protecting others. And it’s _those_ memories that make Stiles burn with fury again, not the absolutely cruel grin on Void’s lips — this one he almost welcomes.

“Why, I paid him a lovely visit,” the demon purrs, tongue licking over his lower lip, sharp fangs biting it down, and undoubtedly enjoying Stiles’ livid contempt flaring in delighted attention. “Few hours in personal Hell — well, weeks for him — and some more… hands on experience. Ah, by the way, he says sorry.”

Stiles jerks, knocked off-balance and brows raising in shock. He doesn’t even have the chance to respond when Void chuckles, absolutely delighted.

“Yes, I must say, it wasn’t very convincing. But… I guess he paid sufficiently.”

Void cocks his head, just slightly lower and tilted, eyes narrowing on Stiles as if daring him to react, to say it wasn’t exactly what he himself wanted, for the old hunter to pay for everything accordingly. But there’s also a very personal lilt to Void’s words, spoken of apology and flowing a thin stream through the bond. Because of course he knew, saw it first hand through Stiles’ own mind, and decided to collect on retribution — for him, for Stiles.

_A gift,_ the connection seems to whisper, _will you accept?_ And what better, more honest gift from a being of chaos and pain and revenge he could get?

Distantly, it occurs to Stiles he should be appalled, get sick with guilt or a surge of empathy, but it just... doesn’t come. So instead he takes in the bond swirling between them and plants it deeper, lets it pour inside and fill him up, leak with his own power back until Void’s eyes flicker silver; the gleam a pure, pleased hunger, just as the slant of his parted lips.

Stiles can’t quite help licking his own.

“I guess one comeback less to worry about, huh?” he says and it sounds nonchalant enough, only a small wavering edge at the end, but Void’s mouth quirk up anyway.

It’s a bit weird, discussing murder without much of emotion, any outrage that probably should be there, yet the only thing that Stiles is truly capable to feel about it is relief — Gerard won’t kill anyone else if he’s dead. And if Void got himself what he needs out of it, well, Stiles is not complaining. But the way he’s absolutely pinned under the demon’s gaze is not exactly helping any thought process.

And because it’s also increasingly harder to stay put in place, Stiles forces himself to go back to the topic they should be discussing right now.

“The Beast,” he announces, immediately cringing and clearing his throat right after, the burn in his cheek made even worse with the amusement sipping down the bond. “You said most of the people following it were hunters, what of the others?”

“That’s the interesting part,” he muses, lightly pushing himself away from the desk— “There was one. A man.” —and slowly makes his way to Stiles, eyes never straying. “Covering the tracks. Ready to take the blame.” He stops at Stiles’ side, lowers himself slowly to sit just beside him, and Stiles can’t look away. “Even to die for him.”

Void curls one leg over the covers, pressing it all the way to Stiles thigh, and the distance created by the move feels both too vast and not big enough at once. It does make Void face him easily, while Stiles refuses to move yet can’t stop turning to keep his gaze.

“Seems pretty obsessed,” he says instead of blurting the shameful plea that surfaced somewhere in the back of his mind, in-between rattling boxes. His answer is a low hum, a flick of eyes slipping over his face. “Who was he?”

And why does he sound so breathless?

“A friend, maybe, or...” Void’s voice lilts, just before he looks up to meet Stiles eyes once more, mouth curled at one corner, “...perhaps a lover?”

Stiles doesn’t lean in, but it’s a close thing, fingers digging into his own thigh — Void’s eyes drop down to it for a second, noting with a spike of heavy-sweet in the air.

“So he’s one of them?”

Void doesn’t answer, but it seems more like he’s giving Stiles time to circle the thought around — so he does. It’s hard, focusing on anything when the scent sticking to his tongue is everything he wants to taste and not think about, but it gets easier when he finally manages to look away.

“Okay, so he extended his life after the Beast died, started obsessing over elongating his life to… to find a way to bring it back?” He frowns, something not exactly sticking together, maybe he’s thinking wrong about it? Not the Beast, but— When the realization settles, it seems so glaringly obvious. “No, bring _him_ back. Not the Beast—”

Buzzing with new found anticipation, he turns back to Void — and words die on his lips. Something warm, sharp in its softness, in a pride-laced expression looking back at him.

“The man under the Beast, yes. That does sound believable, doesn’t it?” the demon muses, voice woven with humor as much as the strange warmth that seems to creep up Stiles' skin in a blush.

“ _Damnatio Memoriae_ ,” it makes so much sense now, “they wouldn’t want it to remember if the only thing they wanted was a Beast following orders. They want— _He_ wants the werewolf back…”

And he’s close to succeeding, but—

“Why would the others want that, though? Are they, like, as close to it?”

“Maybe they want to finish a project, accomplish a goal, create a success crowning all the experimentation of their lives—” Void almost shrugs, voice dismissive, as if that part was completely uninteresting, but he does smile with his next words, “—or maybe they just want to see the world burn.”

Stiles parts his mouth immediately to refute that, but it… doesn’t come. It’s a bit jarring, that all of the reasons listed feel just as likely, that his magic lays dormant as if it doesn’t quite matter. So maybe it really doesn’t — they know what the Doctors are doing, now they need to find a way to undo it and stop them once and for all.

With a light huff, Stiles shakes his head and decides not to answer that. The exhaustion is slowly creeping in, blurriness edging at his vision, and he still needs to pack for the trip.

“I’m going for a shower,” he decides, right then and there, completely ignorant to how it sounded until he catches the stretching grin on Void’s lips.

“That an invite, darling?”

Blushing furiously, he squawks and scrambles to his feet, almost tripping over himself. And Void chuckles, watching him in amusement, but the heated, potent edge to his scent doesn’t even waver.

Stiles sets his jaw and tries for scoffing.

“Don’t even think about it, asshole.”

“Why, that’s everything I’m going to be thinking about,” Void purrs, a half-growl that sounds, somehow, absolutely obscene coupled with the sharp smirk on his lips.

So, of course, Stiles escapes to the bathroom with a barely-stifled sound in the back of his throat he doesn’t even want to name. And definitely doesn’t think about _anything_ in particular under the shower. But the hot water works wonders, muscles relaxing and knots releasing under the spray, so when he gets into bed much later his brain is fuzzy with sleep and glazed over in quiet longing. He doesn’t even protest when there’s a body pressing to him, arms around his waist— just drifts off to sleep feeling safe and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, thoughts? 👀 Reactions? Feelings? What are y'all thinking about this one? Please, do let me know! Cause I craaaaave reactions, lmao, they do fuel me a lot ;p And I loved writing this one - or at least the second part - so I'd really like to know what you think ^^ I griped with myself a lot with how to approach the Scott dilemma and ultimately decided not to add more drama than necessary - I do like his fanon, good!Scott portrayal, but given how far we are in the story, that just wouldn't work, so I went for something in the middle. Also, originally I wanted to write Stiles into that tunnel scene, but I was agonizing over writing it for so long I finally came up with this one and Theo showing up in Stiles' room - do you like it? Because I must say, I'm quite satisfied with this one ;D But that's enough of my rambling!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this one! As always, you can find me over on tumblr at raksh-writes - [link](https://raksh-writes.tumblr.com/) here - all the info on updates, my progress and various other things there, so check it out if it's your thing!  
> All the love ❤


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